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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORRO 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JAN    6  1983  1  A 


rec'd  circ.  MAR  8     1983 


;•. . :  •  •'  •     .-. 

°^-^      bo   ii  A 


FED  2  4  1966 


JUH 


— 


DUD   OCTI4  '73- 


2rA-30m-3,'62 
(C7097slO)476B 


University  of  California 
Berkeley 


JANE    FIELD 


BY 


MARY   E.  WILKINS 


AUTHOR  OF  "A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES " 

"A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  AND  OTHER  STORIES  " 

"  YOUNG  LUCRETIA,  AND  OTHER  STORIES  " 

ETC.,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1893 


Copyright,  1892,  by  HARPER  £  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


1 243 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


MARY  E.  WILKINS Frontispiece 

"  'i  WISH  YOU  WOULDN'T  BE  IN  SUCH 

A  HURRY'" Faces  page     IO 

' '  SHE  TOOK  THE  CHILD'S  LITTLE  HAND  "  2O 

"MRS.  FIELD  STOOD  BY  THE  FRONT 

GATE,  LOOKING  DOWN  THE  ROAD  "  42 

"THEY  STOOD  LOOKING  AT  THE  YOUNG 

GIRL" 50 

"SHE  WATCHED  HER  MOTHER  OUT  OF 

SIGHT" 54 

"SHE  WALKED  ON,  WITH  HER  STERN, 

IMPASSIVE  OLD  FACE  SET  STRAIGHT 

AHEAD" 84 

•'  FLORA  AND  THE  CHILDREN  RECEIVED 

THEM  BEAMINGLY  " "  IIO 

"'NOW  CHEER  UP,'  SAID  HE"  ...  "  150 
"THE  MINISTER,  MR.  TUXBURY,  AND 

MRS.  ROBBINS'S  HUSBAND  ALL  AR 
RIVED  TOGETHER" "  186 

MRS.   HENRY   MAXWELL "          l88 


344864 


VI  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

"  '  I  DUN  KNOW  HOW  SHE'D  MANAGE  '  "    Faces  page  208 

"MRS.  GREEN  LOOKED  TOWARDS  THE 

COMING  TRAIN" "  216 

"LOIS  SAID  NOTHING;  SHE  BENT  HER 

HOT    FACE    CLOSER    OVER    HER 

WORK" "  220 

"'I  AIN'T  ESTHER  MAXWELL.'  HER 

VOICE  AROSE  IN  A  STERN  SHRIEK"         "       2&O 


JANE   FIELD 


CHAPTER    I 

AMANDA  PRATT'S  cottage-house  was 
raised  upon  two  banks  above  the  road-level. 
Here  and  there  the  banks  showed  irregular 
patches  of  yellow-green,  where  a  little 
milky-stemmed  plant  grew.  It  had  come 
up  every  spring  since  Amanda  could  re 
member. 

There  was  a  great  pink-lined  shell  on  each 
side  of  the  front  door-step,  and  the  path 
down  over  the  banks  to  the  road  was 
bordered  with  smaller  shells.  The  house 
was  white,  and  the  front  door  was  dark 
green,  with  an  old-fashioned  knocker  in  the 
centre. 

There  were  four  front  windows,  and  the 
roof  sloped  down  to  them;  two  were  in 
Amanda's  parlor,  and  two  were  in  Mrs. 
i  i 


h" 

Vw 


2*-    -  X*"'    -'    *»  ;     r'-JA>TE    FIELD 

Field's.  She  rented  half  of  her  house  to 
Mrs.  Jane  Field. 

There  was  a  head  at  each  of  Amanda's 
front  windows.  One  was  hers,  the  other 
was  Mrs.  Babcock's.  Amanda's  old  blond 
face,  with  its  folds  of  yellow-gray  hair  over 
the  ears  and  sections  of  the  softly-wrinkled, 
pinky  cheeks,  was  bent  over  some  needle- 
ork.  So  was  Mrs.  Babcock's,  darkly  dim 
with  age,  as  if  the  hearth-fires  of  her  life 
had  always  smoked,  with  a  loose  flabbiness 
about  the  jaw-bones,  which  seemed  to  make 
more  evident  the  firm  structure  underneath. 

Amanda  was  sewing  a  braided  rug;  her 
little  veiny  hands  jerked  the  stout  thread 
through  with  a  nervous  energy  that  was  out 
of  accord  with  her  calm  expression  and  the 
droop  of  her  long  slender  body. 

"It's  pretty  hard  sewin'  braided  mats, 
ain't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Babcock. 

"I  don't  care  how  hard  'tis  if  I  can  get 
'em  sewed  strong,"  replied  Amanda,  and 
her  voice  was  unexpectedly  quick  and  de 
cided.  "  I  never  had  any  feelin'  that  any 
thing  was  hard,  if  I  could  only  do  it." 

"Well,  you  ain't  had  so  much  hard  work 
to  do  as  some  folks.  Settin'  in  a  rockin'- 


JANE    FIELD  3 

chair  sewin'  braided  mats  ain't  like  doin' 
the  housework  for  a  whole  family.  If 
you'd  had  the  cookin'  to  do  for  four  men- 
folks,  the  way  I  have,  you'd  felt  it  was 
pretty  hard  work,  even  if  you  did  make  out 
to  fill  'em  up."  Mrs.  Babcock  smiled,  and 
showed  that  she  did  not  forget  she  was  com 
pany,  but  her  tone  was  quite  fierce. 

"  Mebbe  I  should,"  returned  Amanda, 
stiffly. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Let  me  see,  how  many  mats  does  that 
make?"  Mrs.  Babcock  asked,  finally,  in  an 
amiable  voice. 

"Like  this  one?" 

"Yes." 

"  This  makes  the  ninth." 

Mrs.  Babcock  scrutinized  the  floor.  It 
was  almost  covered  with  braided  rugs,  and 
they  were  all  alike. 

"  I  declare  I  don't  see  where  you'll  put 
another  in  here,"  said  she. 

"  I  guess  I  can  lay  'em  a  little  thicker 
over  there  by  the  what-not." 

"Well,  mebbe  you  can;  but  I  declare  I 
shouldn't  scarcely  think  you  needed  another. 
I  shouldn't  think  your  carpet  would  wear 


4  JANE    FIELD 

out  till  the  day  of  judgment.  What  made 
you  have  them  mats  all  jest  alike?" 

"I  like  'em  better  so,"  replied  Amanda, 
with  dignity. 

"Well,  of  course,  if  you  do  there  ain't 
nothin'  to  say;  it's  your  carpet  an'  your 
mats,"  returned  Mrs.  Babcock,  with  grim 
apology. 

There  were  two  curious  features  about 
Amanda  Pratt's  parlor:  one  was  a  gentle 
monotony  of  details;  the  other,  a  certain 
savor  of  the  sea.  It  was  like  holding  a 
shell  to  one's  ear  to  enter  Amanda's  parlor. 
There  was  a  faint  suggestion  of  far-away 
sandy  beaches,  the  breaking  of  waves,  and 
the  rush  of  salt  winds.  In  the  centre  of  the 
mantel-shelf  stood  a  stuffed  sea-gull;  on 
either  side  shells  were  banked.  The  fire 
place  was  flanked  by  great  branches  of  coral, 
and  on  the  top  of  the  air-tight  stove  there 
stood  always  in  summer-time,  when  there 
was  no  fire,  a  superb  nautilus  shell,  like  a 
little  pearl  vessel.  The  corner  what-not,  too, 
had  its  shelves  heaped  with  shells  and  coral 
and  choice  bits  of  rainbow  lava  from  vol 
canic  islands.  Between  the  windows,  in 
stead  of  the  conventional  mahogany  card- 


JANE    FIELD  5 

table,  stood  one  of  Indian  lacquer,  and  on 
it  was  a  little  inlaid  cabinet  that  was 
brought  from  over  seas.  The  whole  room 
in  this  little  inland  cottage,  far  beyond  the 
salt  fragrance  of  the  sea,  seemed  like  one  of 
those  mmne  fossils  sometimes  found  miles 
from  the  coast.  It  indicated  the  presence 
of  the  sea  in  the  lives  of  Amanda's  race. 
Her  grandfather  had  been  a  seafaring  man, 
and  so  had  her  father,  until  late  in  life, 
when  he  had  married  an  inland  woman,  and 
settled  down  among  waves  of  timothy  and 
clover  on  her  paternal  acres. 

Amanda  was  like  her  mother,  she  had 
nothing  of  the  sea  tastes  in  her  nature.  She 
was  full  of  loyal  conservatism  toward  the 
marine  ornaments  of  her  parlor,  but  she 
secretly  preferred  her  own  braided  rugs,  and 
the  popular  village  fancy-work,  in  which 
she  was  quite  skilful.  On  each  of  her 
chairs  was  a  tidy,  and  the  tidies  were  all 
alike;  in  the  corners  of  the  room  were  lam 
brequins,  all  worked  after  the  same  pattern 
in  red  worsted  and  beads.  On  one  wall 
hung  a  group  of  pictures  framed  in  card 
board,  four  little  colored  prints  of  crosses 
twined  with  flowers,  and  they  were  all 


6  JANE    FIELD 

alike.  "Why  didn't  you  get  them  crosses 
different?"  many  a  neighbor  had  said  to 
her — these  crosses,  with  some  variation  of 
the  entwining  foliage,  had  been  very  popu 
lar  in  the  rural  neighborhood — and  Amanda 
had  replied  with  quick  dignity  that  she 
liked  them  better  the  way  she  had  them. 
i  fAmanda  maintained  the  monotony  of  her 
I  life  as  fiercely  as  her  fathers  had  pursued 
£  the  sea.  She  was  like  a  little  animal  born 
with  a  rebound  to  its  own  track,  from 
whence  no  amount  of  pushing  could  keep 
it  long. 

Mrs.  Babcock  glanced  sharply  around 
the  room  as  she  sewed ;  she  was  anxious 
to  divert  Amanda's  mind  from  the  mats. 
"Don't  the  moths  ever  git  into  that  stuffed 
bird  over  there?"  she  asked  suddenly,  in 
dicating  the  gull  on  the  shelf  with  a  side- 
wise  jerk  of  her  head. 

"No;  I  ain't  never  had  a  mite  of  trouble 
with  'em,"  replied  Amanda.  "I  always 
keep  a  little  piece  of  camphor  tucked  under 
his  wing  feathers." 

"Well,  you're  lucky  Mis'  Jackson  she 
had  a  stuffed  canary-bird  all  eat  up  with 
'em.  She  had  to  put  him  in  the  stove; 


JANE    FIELD  7 

couldn't  do  nothin'  with  him.  She  felt  real 
bad  about  it.  She'd  thought  a  good  deal  of 
the  bird  when  he  was  alive,  an'  he  was 
stuffed  real  handsome,  an'  settin  'on  a  little 
green  sprig.  She  use  to  keep  him  on  her 
parlor  shelf;  he  was  jest  the  right  size. 
It's  a  pity  your  bird  is  quite  so  big, 
ain't  it? " 

"  I  s'pose  he's  jest  the  way  he  was  made," 
returned  Amanda  shortly. 

"  Of  course  he  is.  I  ain't  findin'  no  fault 
with  him;  all  is,  I  thought  he  was  kind  of 
big  for  the  shelf;  but  then  birds  do  perch 
on  dreadful  little  places."  Mrs.  Babcock, 
full  of  persistency  in  exposing  herself  to  re 
buffs,  was  very  sensitive  and  easily  cowed 
by  one.  "  Let  me  see — he's  quite  old.  Your 
grandfather  bought  him,  didn't  he?"  said 
she,  in  a  mollifying  tone. 

Amanda  nodded.  "  He's  a  good  deal 
older  than  I  am,"  said  she. 

"  It's  queer  how  some  things  that  ain't  of 
no  account  really  in  the  world  last,  while 
others  that's  worth  so  much  more  don't," 
Mrs.  Babcock  remarked,  meditatively. 
"Now,  there's  that  bird  there,  lookin'  jest 
as  nice  and  handsome,  and  there's  the  one 


8  JANE    FIELD 

that  bought  him  and  brought  him  home,  in 
his  grave  out  of  sight." 

"There's  a  good  many  queer  things  in 
this  world,"  rejoined  Amanda,  with  a  sigh. 

"I  guess  there  is,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock. 
"  Now  you  can  jest  look  round  this  room, 
an'  see  all  the  things  that  belonged  to  your 
folks  that's  dead  an'  gone,  and  it  seems 
almost  as  if  they  was  immortal  instead  of 
them.  An'  it's  goin'  to  be  jest  the  same 
way  with  us;  the  clothes  that's  hangin'  up 
in  our  closets  are  goin'  to  outlast  us.  Well, 
there's  one  thing  about  it — this  world  ain't 
our  abidin'-place." 

Mrs.  Babcock  shook  her  head  resolutely, 
and  began  to  fold  up  her  work.  She  rolled 
the  unbleached  cloth  into  a  hard  smooth 
bundle,  with  the  scissors,  thimble,  and 
thread  inside,  and  the  needle  quilted  in. 

"  You  ain't  goin'  ?  "  said  Amanda. 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  must.  I've  got  to  be 
home  by  half-past  five  to  get  supper,  an' 
I  thought  I'd  jest  look  in  at  Mis'  Field's 
a  minute.  Do  you  s'pose  she's  to  home  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  was.  I  ain't 
seen  her  go  out  anywhere." 

"Well,  I  dun'no'  when  I've  been  in  there, 


JANE    FIELD  9 

an'  I  dun'no'  but  she'd  think  it  was  kinder 
queer  if  I  went  right  into  the  house  and 
didn't  go  near  her." 

Amanda  arose,  letting  the  mat  slide  to 
the  floor,  and  went  into  the  bedroom  to  get 
Mrs.  Babcock's  bonnet  and  light  shawl. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  in  such  a  hurry," 
said  she,  using  the  village  formula  of  hos 
pitality  to  a  departing  guest. 

"It  don't  seem  to  me  I've  been  in  much 
of  a  hurry.  I've  stayed  here  the  whole  after 
noon." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Babcock,  pinning  on  her 
shawl,  thrust  her  face  close  to  Amanda's. 
"I  want  to  know  if  it's  true  Lois  Field  is  so 
miserable?"  she  whispered. 

"Well,  I  dun'no'.  She  don't  look  jest 
right,  but  she  an'  her  mother  won't  own  up 
but  what  she 'swell." 

"  Coin'  the  way  Mis'  Maxwell  did,  ain't 
she?" 

"I  dun'no'.  I'm  worried  about  her  my 
self — dreadful  worried.  Lois  is  a  nice  girl 
as  ever  was." 

"  She  ain't  give  up  her  school  ?" 

Amanda  shook  her  head. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  her  mother'd  have  her. " 


10  JANE    FIELD 

"I  s'pose  she  feels  as  if  she'd  got  to." 
Mrs.  Babcock  dropped  her  voice  still  lower. 
"They're  real  poor,  ain't  they?" 

"I  guess  they  ain't  got  much." 

"I  s'posed  they  hadn't.  Well,  I  hope 
Lois  ain't  goin'  down.  I  heard  she  looked 
dreadful.  Mis'  Jackson  she  was  in  yester 
day,  talkin'  about  it.  Well,  you  come  over 
an'  see  me,  Mandy.  Bring  your  sewin' 
over  some  afternoon." 

"Well,  mebbe  I  will.  I  don't  go  out  a 
great  deal,  you  know." 

The  two  women  grimaced  to  each  other 
in  a  friendly  fashion,  then  Amanda  shut  her 
door,  and  Mrs.  Babcock  pattered  softly  and 
heavily  across  the  little  entry,  and  opened 
Mrs.  Field's  door.  She  pressed  the  old 
brass  latch  with  a  slight  show  of  ceremo 
nious  hesitancy,  but  she  never  thought  of 
knocking.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room, 
which  had  a  clean  and  sparse  air.  The 
chairs  all  stood  back  against  the  walls,  and 
left  in  the  centre  a  wide  extent  of  faded 
carpet,  full  of  shadowy  gray  scrolls. 

Mrs.  Babcock  stood  for  a  moment  staring 
in  and  listening. 

There  was  a  faint  sound  of  a  voice  seem- 


i  WISH  YOU  WOULDN'T  BE  IN  SUCH  A  HURRY 


JANE    FIELD  II 

ingly  from  a  room  beyond.  She  called, 
softly,  "Mis'  Field!"  There  was  no  re 
sponse.  She  advanced  then  resolutely  over 
the  stretch  of  carpet  toward  the  bedroom 
door.  She  opened  it,  then  gave  a  little  em 
barrassed  grunt,  and  began  backing  away. 

Mrs.  Field  was  in  there,  kneeling  beside 
the  bed,  praying.  She  started  and  looked 
up  at  Mrs.  Babcock  with  a  kind  of  solemn 
abashedness,  her  long  face  flushed.  Then 
she  got  up.  "Good-afternoon,"  said  she. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  returned  Mrs. Babcock. 
She  tried  to  smile  and  recover  her  equa 
nimity.  "I've  been  into  Mandy  Pratt's," 
she  went  on,  "an'  I  thought  I'd  jest  look 
in  here  a  minute  before  I  went  home,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  come  in  so  if  I'd  known  you 
was — busy." 

"Come  out  in  the  other  room  an'  sit 
down,"  said  Mrs.  Field. 

Mrs.  Babcock's  agitated  bulk  followed 
her  over  the  gray  carpet,  and  settled  into  the 
rocking-chair  at  one  of  the  front  windows. 
Mrs.  Field  seated  herself  at  the  other. 

"It's  been  a  pleasant  day,  ain't  it?" 
said  she. 

"  Real  pleasant.      I  told  Mr.  Babcock  this 


12  JANE    FIELD 

noon  that  I  was  goin'  to  git  out  somewheres 
this  afternoon  come  what  would.  I've  been 
cooped  up  all  the  spring  house-cleanin',  an' 
now  I'm  goin'  to  git  out.  I  dun'no'  when 
I've  been  anywhere.  I  ain't  been  into 
Mandy's  sence  Christmas  that  I  know  of — 
I  ain't  been  in  to  set  down,  anyway;  an' 
I've  been  meanin'  to  run  in  an'  see  you  all 
winter,  Mis'  Field."  All  the  trace  of  confu 
sion  now  left  in  Mrs.  Babcock's  manner  was 
a  weak  volubility. 

"It's  about  all  anybody  can  do  to  do 
their  housework,  if  they  do  it  thorough," 
returned  Mrs.  Field.  "I  s'pose  you've 
been  takin*  up  carpets?" 

"Took  up  every  carpet  in  the  house.  I 
do  every  year.  Some  folks  don't,  but  I 
can't  stand  it.  I'm  afraid  of  moths,  too. 
I  s'pose  you've  got  yourcleanin'  all  done?" 

"Yes,  I've  got  it  about  done." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  think  you  could  do  so 
much,  Mis'  Field,  with  your  hands." 

Mrs.  Field's  hands  lay  in  her  lap,  yellow 
and  heavily  corrugated,  the  finger-joints  in 
great  knots,  which  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  tied  in  the  bone.  Mrs.  Babcock  eyed 
them  pitilessly. 


JANE    FIELD  13 

"  How  are  they  now  ? "  she  inquired. 
"  Seems  to  me  they  look  worse  than  they 
used  to." 

Mrs.  Field  regarded  her  hands  with  a 
staid,  melancholy  air.  "Well,  I  dun'noV 

"  Seems  to  me  they  look  worse.  How's 
Lois,  Mis'  Field?" 

"  She's  pretty  well,  I  guess.  I  dun'no' 
why  she  ain't." 

"  Somebody  was  sayin'  the  other  day  that 
she  looked  dreadfully." 

Mrs.  Field  had  heretofore  held  herself 
with  a  certain  slow  dignity.  Now  her  man 
ner  suddenly  changed,  and  she  spoke  fast. 
"I  dun'no'  what  folks  mean  talkin'  so," 
said  she.  "  Lois  ain't  been  lookin'  very 
well,  as  I  know  of,  lately;  but  it's  the 
spring  of  the  year,  an'  she's  always  apt  to 
feel  it." 

"  Mebbe  that  is  it,"  replied  the  other, 
with  a  doubtful  inflection.  "Let's  see,  you 
called  it  consumption  that  ailed  your  sister, 
didn't  you,  Mis'  Field?" 

"I  s'pose  it  was." 

Mrs.  Babcock  stared  with  cool  reflection 
at  the  other  woman's  long,  pale  face,  with 
its  high  cheek-bones  and  deep-set  eyes  and 


14  JANE    FIELD 

wide,  drooping  mouth.  She  was  deliberating 
whether  or  not  to  ask  for  some  information 
that  she  wanted.  "Speakin'  of  your  sister," 
said  she  finally,  with  a  casual  air,  "  her 
husband's  father  is  livin',  ain't  he?" 

"  He  was  the  last  I  knew." 

"I  s'pose  he's  worth  considerable  prop 
erty?" 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  he  is." 

"Well,  I  want  to  know.  Somebody  was 
speakin'  about  it  the  other  day,  an'  they 
said  they  thought  he  did,  an'  I  told  'em  I 
didn't  believe  it.  He  never  helped  your 
sister's  husband  any,  did  he?" 

Mrs.  Field  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 
Mrs.  Babcock  was  leaning  forward  and  smil 
ing  ingratiatingly,  with  keen  eyes  upon  her 
face. 

"I  dun'no'  as  he  did.  But  I  guess  Ed 
ward  never  expected  he  would  much,"  said 
she. 

"  Well,  I  told  'em  I  didn't  believe  he  did. 
I  declare !  it  seemed  pretty  tough,  didn't  it  ? " 

"  I  dun'no'.  I  thought  of  it  some  along 
there  when  Edward  was  sick." 

"  I  declare,  I  should  have  thought  you'd 
wrote  to  him  about  it." 


JANE    FIELD  15 

Mrs.  Field  said  nothing. 

"Didn't  you  ever?"  Mrs.  Babcock  asked. 

"Well,  yes;  I  wrote  once  when  he  was 
first  taken  sick." 

"An'  he  didn't  take  any  notice  of  it?" 

Mrs.  Field  shook  her  head. 

"  He's  a  regular  old  skinflint,  ain't  he?" 
said  Mrs.  Babcock. 

"I  guess  he's  a  pretty  set  kind  of  a  man." 

"  Set!  I  should  call  it  more'n  set.  Now, 
Mis'  Field,  I'd  really  like  to  know  some 
thing.  I  ain't  curious,  but  I've  heard  so 
many  stories  about  it  that  I'd  really  like  to 
know  the  truth  of  it  once.  Somebody  was 
speakin'  about  it  the  other  day,  an'  it  don't 
seem  right  for  stories  to  be  goin'  the  rounds 
when  there  ain't  no  truth  in  'em.  Mis' 
Field,  what  was  it  set  Edward  Maxwell's 
father  agin'  him?"  Mrs.  Babcock's  voice 
sank  to  a  whisper,  she  leaned  farther  for 
ward,  and  gazed  at  Mrs.  Field  with  crafty 
sweetness. 

Mrs.  Field  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"Well,  I  s'pose  it  was  some  trouble  about 
money  matters." 

"  Money  matters  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  so." 


l6  JANE    FIELD 

"Mis'  Field,  what  did  he  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Field  did  not  reply.  She  looked  out 
of  the  window  at  the  green  banks  in  front. 
Her  face  was  inscrutable. 

Mrs.  Babcock  drew  herself  up.  "  Course 
I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  nothin'  you 
don't  want  to,"  said  she,  with  injured  dig 
nity.  "  I  ain't  pryin'  into  things  that  folks 
don't  wrant  me  to  know  about;  it  wa'n't 
never  my  way.  All  is,  I  thought  I'd  like 
to  know  the  truth  of  it,  whether  there  was 
anything  in  them  stories  or  not." 

"  Oh,  I'd  jest  as  soon  tell  you,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Field  quietly.  "I  was  jest  a- think  in'. 
As  near  as  I  can  tell  you,  Mis'  Babcock, 
Edward's  father  he  let  him  have  some  money, 
and  Edward  he  speculated  with  it  on  some 
thing  contrary  to  his  advice,  an'  lost  it,  an' 
that  made  the  trouble." 

"Was  that  all?"  asked  Mrs.  Babcock, 
with  a  disappointed  air. 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  it  was." 

"I  want  to  know!"  Mrs.  Babcock 
leaned  back  with  a  sigh.  "Well,  there's 
another  thing,  "  she  said  presently. 
"Somebody  was  sayin'  the  other  day  that 
you  thought  Esther  caught  the  consumption 


JANE    FIELD  I  7 

from  her   husband.     I  wanted    to  know  if 
you  did." 

Mrs.  Field's  face  twitched.  "  Well,  "  she 
replied,  "I  dun'no'.  I've  heard  consump 
tion  was  catchin',  an'  she  was  right  over 
him  the  whole  time." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  ain't  never  been 
able  to  take  much  stock  in  catchin'  con 
sumption.  There  was  Mis'  Gay  night  an' 
day  with  Susan  for  ten  years,  an'  she's  jest 
as  well  as  anybody.  I  should  be  afraid 
'twas  a  good  deal  likelier  to  be  in  your 
family.  Does  Lois  cough  ?  " 

'*  None  to  speak  of." 

"Well,  there's  more  kinds  of  consumption 
than  one." 

Mrs.  Babcock  made  quite  a  long  call. 
She  shook  Mrs.  Field's  hand  warmly  at 
parting.  "I  want  to  know,  does  Lois  like 
honey?  "  said  she. 

"Yes,  she's  real  fond  of  it." 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  send  her  over  a  dish 
of  it.  Ours  was  uncommon  nice  this  year. 
It's  real  good  for  a  cough." 

On  her  way  home  Mrs.  Babcock  met  Lois 
Field  coming  from  school  attended  by  a 
little  flock  of  children.  Mrs.  Babcock 


1 8  JANE    FIELD 

stopped,  and  looked  sharply  at  her  small, 
delicately  pretty  face,  with  its  pointed  chin 
and  deep-set  blue  eyes. 

"How  are  you  feelin'  to-night,  Lois? " 
she  inquired,  in  a  tone  of  forcible  commis 
eration. 

"I'm  pretty  well,  thank   you, "said  Lois. 

"Seems  to  me  you're  lookin'  pretty  slim. 
You'd  ought  to  take  a  little  vacation." 
Mrs.  Babcock  surveyed  her  with  a  kind  of 
pugnacious  pity. 

Lois  stood  quite  erect  in  the  midst  of  the 
children.  "I  don't  think  I  need  any  vaca 
tion,"  said  she,  smiling  constrainedly.  She 
pushed  gently  past  Mrs.  Babcock,  with  the 
children  at  her  heels. 

"You'd  better  take  a  little  one,"  Mrs. 
Babcock  called  after  her. 

Lois  kept  on  as  if  she  did  not  hear.  Her 
face  was  flushed,  and  her  head  seemed  full 
of  beating  pulses. 

One  of  the  children,  a  thin  little  girl  in  a 
blue  dress,  turned  around  and  grimaced  at 
Mrs.  Babcock;  another  pulled  Lois'  dress. 
"  Teacher,  Jenny  Whitcomb  is  makin'  faces 
at  Mis'  Babcock,"  she  drawled. 

"Jenny!"     said    Lois  sharply;    and   the 


JANE    FIELD  19 

little  girl  turned  her  face  with  a  scared  ner 
vous  giggle.  "  You  mustn't  ever  do  such  a 
thing  as  that  again,"  said  Lois.  She 
reached  down  and  took  the  child's  little 
restive  hand  and  led  her  along. 

Lois  had  not  much  farther  to  go.  The 
children  all  clamored,  "  Good-by,  teacher!" 
when  she  turned  in  at  her  own  gate. 

She  went  in  through  the  sitting-room  to 
the  kitchen,  and  settled  down  into  a  chair 
with  her  hat  on. 

"Well,  so  you've  got  home,"  said  her 
mother;  she  was  moving  about  preparing 
supper.  She  smiled  anxiously  at  Lois  as 
she  spoke. 

Lois  smiled  faintly,  but  her  forehead  was 
frowning.  "  Has  that  Mrs.  Babcock  been 
here?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes.     Did  you  meet  her  ? " 

"Yes,  I  did;  and  I'd  like  to  know  what 
she  meant  telling  me  I'd  ought  to  take  a 
vacation,  and  I  looked  bad.  I  wish  people 
would  let  me  alone  tellin'  me  how  I  look." 

"She  meant  well,  I  guess,"  said  her 
mother,  soothingly.  "  She  said  she  was 
goin'  to  send  you  over  a  dish  of  her  honey." 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  her  honey.     I  don't 


20  JANE    FIELD 

see  what  folks  want  to  send  things  in  to 
me,  as  if  I  were  sick,  for." 

"Oh,  I  guess  she  thought  I'd  like  some 
too,"  returned  her  mother,  with  a  kind  of 
stiff,  playfulness.  "You  needn't  think 
you're  goin'  to  have  all  that  honey." 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  it,"  said  Lois.  The 
window  beside  which  she  sat  was  open;  un 
der  it,  in  the  back  yard,  was  a  little  thicket 
of  mint,  and  some  long  sprays  of  sweetbrier 
bowing  over  it.  Lois  reached  out  and 
broke  off  a  piece  of  the  sweetbrier  and 
smelled  it. 

"Supper's  ready,"  said  her  mother,  pres 
ently;  and  she  took  off  her  hat  and  went 
listlessly  over  to  the  table. 

The  table,  covered  with  a  white  cloth, 
was  set  back  against  the  wall,  with  only  one 
leaf  spread.  There  were  bread  and  butter 
and  custards  and  a  small  glass  dish  of  rhu 
barb  sauce  for  supper. 

Lois  looked  at  the  dish.  "  I  didn't  know 
the  rhubarb  was  grown,"  said  she. 

"I  managed  to  get  enough  for  supper," 
replied  her  mother,  in  a  casual  voice. 

Nobody  would  have  dreamed  how  day 
after  day  she  had  journeyed  stiffly  down  to 


Jffl 

m 


"SHE  TOOK  THE  CHILD'S  LITTLE  HAND" 


JANE    FIELD  21 

the  old  garden  spot  behind  the  house  to 
watch  the  progress  of  the  rhubarb,  and  how 
triumphantly  she  had  brought  up  those 
green  and  rosy  stalks.  Lois  had  always 
been  very  fond  of  rhubarb. 

She  ate  it  now  with  a  keen  relish.  Her 
mother  contrived  that  she  should  have 
nearly  all  of  it;  she  made  a  show  of  helping 
herself  twice,  but  she  took  very  little.  But 
it  was  to  her  as  if  she  also  tasted  every 
spoonful  which  her  daughter  ate,  and  as  if 
it  had  the  flavor  of  a  fruit  of  Paradise  and 
satisfied  her  very  soul. 

After  supper  Lois  began  packing  up  the 
cups  and  saucers. 

"  Now  you  go  in  the  other  room  an'  set 
down,  an'  let  me  take  care  of  the  dishes," 
said  Mrs.  Field,  timidly. 

Lois  faced  about  instantly.  "  Now, 
mother,  I'd  just  like  to  know  what  you 
mean  ?  "  said  she.  "  I  guess  I  ain't  quite  so 
far  gone  but  what  I  can  wash  up  a  few 
dishes.  You  act  as  if  you  wanted  to  make 
me  out  sick  in  spite  of  myself." 

"I  thought  mebbe  you  was  kind  of  tired," 
said  her  mother,  apologetically. 

"I  ain't  tired.     I'm  just  as  well  able  to 


22  JANE    FIELD 

wash  up  the  supper  dishes  as  I  ever  was." 
Lois  carried  the  cups  and  saucers  to  the 
sink  with  a  resolute  air,  and  Mrs.  Field  said 
no  more.  She  went  into  her  bedroom  to 
change  her  dress;  she  was  going  to  evening 
meeting. 

Lois  washed  and  put  away  the  dishes; 
then  she  went  into  the  sitting-room,  and  sat 
down  by  the  open  window.  She  leaned  her 
cheek  against  the  chairback  and  looked  out; 
a  sweet  almond  fragrance  of  cherry  and 
apple  blossoms  came  into  her  face;  over 
across  the  fields  a  bird  was  calling.  Lois 
did  not  think  it  tangibly,  but  it  was  to  her 
as  if  the  blossom  scent  and  the  bird  call 
came  out  of  her  own  future.  She  was  ill, 
poor,  and  overworked,  but  she  was  not  un 
happy,  for  her  future  was  yet,  in  a  way,  un 
touched;  she  had  not  learned  to  judge  of  it 
by  hard  precedent,  nor  had  any  mistake  of 
hers  made  a  miserable  certainty  of  it.  It 
still  looked  to  her  as  fair  ahead  as  an  un 
trodden  field  of  heaven. 

She  was  quite  happy  as  she  sat  there;  but 
when  her  mother,  in  her  black  woollen  dress, 
entered,  she  felt  instantly  nervous  and 
fretted.  Mrs.  Field  said  nothing,  but  the 


JANE    FIELD  23 

volume  and  impetus  of  her  anxiety  when  she 
saw  her  daughter's  head  in  the  window 
seemed  to  actually  misplace  the  air. 

Presently  she  went  to  the  window,  and 
leaned  over  to  shut  it. 

"Don't  shut  the  window,  mother,"  said 
Lois. 

"I'm  dreadful  afraid  you'll  catch  cold, 
child." 

"  No,  I  sha'n't,  either.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  fuss  so,  mother." 

Mrs.  Field  stood  back;  the  meeting  bell 
began  to  ring. 

"  Coin'  to  meetin',  mother  ?  "  Lois  asked, 
in  a  pleasanter  voice. 

"  I  thought  mebbe  I  would." 

"  I  guess  I  won't  go.  I  want  to  sew  some 
on  my  dress  this  eveninV 

"  Sha'n't  you  mind  stayin'  alone,  if  I  go  ?  " 

';Mind  stayin'  alone?  of  course  I  sha'n't. 
You  get"  the  strangest  ideas  lately,  mother." 

Mrs.  Field  put  on  her  black  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  started.  The  bell  tolled,  and  she 
passed  down  the  village  street  with  a  stiff 
steadiness  of  gait.  She  felt  eager  to  go  to 
meeting  to-night.  This  old  New  England 
woman,  all  of  whose  traditions,  were  purely 


24  JANE    FIELD 

orthodox,  was  all  unknowingly  a  fetich- 
worshipper  in  a  time  of  trouble.  Ever  since 
her  daughter  had  been  ill,  she  had  had  a 
terrified  impulse  in  her  meeting-going.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  if  she  stayed  away,  Lois 
might  be  worse.  Unconsciously  her  church 
attendance  became  a  species  of  spell,  or  pro 
pitiation  to  a  terrifying  deity,  and  the  wild 
instinct  of  the  African  awoke  in  the  New 
England  woman. 

When  she  reached  the  church  the  bell 
had  stopped  ringing,  and  the  vestry  win 
dows  were  parallelograms  of  yellow  light; 
the  meeting  was  in  the  vestry. 

Mrs.  Field  entered,  and  took  a  seat  well 
toward  the  front.  The  room  was  half  filled 
with  people,  and  the  mass  of  them  were 
elderly  and  middle-aged  women.  There 
were  rows  of  their  homely,  faded,  and 
strong-lined  faces  set  in  sober  bonnets,  a 
sprinkling  of  solemn  old  men,  a  few  bright- 
ribboned  girls,  and  in  the  background  a 
settee  or  two  of  smart  young  fellows.  Right 
in  front  of  Mrs.  Field  sat  a  pretty  girl  with 
roses  in  her  hat.  She  was  about  Lois'  age, 
and  had  been  to  school  with  her. 

Mrs.  Field,  erect  and  gaunt,  with  a  look 


JANE    FIELD  25 

of  goodness  so  settled  and  pre-eminent  in 
her  face  that  it  had  almost  the  effect  of  a 
smile,  sat  and  listened  to  the  minister.  He 
was  a  young  man  with  boyish  shoulders,  and 
a  round  face,  which  he  screwed  nervously 
as  he  talked.  He  was  vehement,  and  strung 
towiriness  with  new  enthusiasm;  he  seemed 
to  toss  the  doctrines  like  footballs  back  and 
forth  before  the  eyes  of  the  people. 

Mrs.  Field  listened  intently,  but  all   the 
time  it  was  as  if  she  were  shut  up  in  a  cor^l 
ner  with  her  own  God  and  her  own  religion.  J 
There  are  as  many  side  chapels  as  there  are 
individual  sorrows  in  every  church. 

After  the  minister  finished  his  discourse, 
the  old  men  muttered  prayers,  with  long 
pauses  between.  Now  and  then  a  young 
woman  played  a  gospel  tune  on  a  melodeon, 
and  a  woman  in  the  same  seat  with  Mrs. 
Field  led  the  singing.  She  was  past  middle 
age,  but  her  voice  was  still  sweet,  although 
once  in  a  while  it  quavered.  She  had  sung 
in  the  church  choir  ever  since  she  was  a 
child,  and  was  the  prima  donna  of  the 
village.  The  young  girl  with  roses  in  her 
hat  who  sat  in  front  of  Mrs.  Field  also  sang 
with  fervor,  although  her  voice  was  little 


26  JANE    FIELD 

more  than  a  sweetly  husky  breath.  She 
kept  her  eyes,  at  once  bold  and  timid,  fixed 
upon  the  young  minister  as  she  sang. 
.  When  meeting  was  done,  and  Mrs.  Field 
arose,  the  girl  spoke  to  her.  She  had  a 
pretty  blush  on  her  round  cheeks,  and  she 
smiled  at  Mrs.  Field  in  the  same  way  that 
she  would  soon  smile  at  the  young  minister. 

"How's  Lois  to-night,  Mrs.  Field?" 
said  she. 

"She's  pretty  well,  thank  you,  Ida." 

"  I  heard  she  was  sick." 

"Oh,  no,  she  ain't  sick.  The  spring 
weather  has  made  her  feel  kind  of  tired  out, 
that's  all.  It  'most  always  does." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  she  isn't  sick,"  said  the 
girl,  her  radiant  absent  eyes  turned  upon 
the  minister,  who  was  talking  with  some 
one  at  the  desk.  "  She  wasn't  out  to  meet 
ing,  and  I  didn't  know  but  she  might  be." 

"She  thought   she  wouldn't "    began 

Mrs.  Field,  but  the  girl  was  gone.  The  min 
ister  had  started  down  the  other  aisle,  and 
she  met  him  at  the  door. 

Several  other  people  inquired  for  Lois  as 
Mrs.  Field  made  her  way  out;  some  had 
heard  she  was  ill  in  bed.  She  had  an 


JANE    FIELD  27 

errand  to  do  at  the  store  on  her  way  home; 
when  she  reached  it  she  went  in,  and  stood 
waiting  at  the  counter. 

There  were  a  number  of  men  lounging 
about  the  large,  rank,  becluttered  room,  and 
there  were  several  customers.  The  village 
post-office  was  in  one  corner  of  the  store. 
There  were  only  two  clerks  besides  the  pro 
prietor,  who  was  postmaster  as  well.  Mrs. 
Field  had  to  wait  quite  a  while;  but  at  last 
she  had  made  her  purchases,  and  was  just 
stepping  out  the  door,  when  a  voice  arrested 
her.  "Mis'  Field,"  it  said. 

She  turned,  and  saw  the  postmaster  com 
ing  toward  her  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 
The  lounging  men  twisted  about  and  stared 
lazily.  The  postmaster  was  a  short,  elderly 
man  with  shelving  gray  whiskers,  and  a 
wide,  smiling  mouth,  which  he  was  drawing 
down  solemnly. 

"Mis'  Field,  here's  a  letter  I  want  you 
to  look  at;  it  come  this  mornin',"  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

Mrs.  Field  took  the  letter.  It  was  di 
rected,  in  a  fair  round  hand,  to  Mrs.  Esther 
Maxwell;  that  had  been  her  dead  sister's 
name.  She  stood  looking  at  it,  her  face 


28  JANE    FIELD 

drooping  severely.  "  It  was  sent  to  my  sis 
ter,"  said  she. 

"I  s'posed  so.  Well,  I  thought  I'd  hand 
it  to  you." 

Mrs.  Field  nodded  gravely,  and  put  the 
letter  in  her  pocket.  She  was  again  passing 
out,  when  somebody  nudged  her  heavily. 
It  was  Mrs.  Green,  a  woman  who  lived  in 
the  next  house  beyond  hers. 

"Jest  wait  a  minute,"  she  said,  "an'  I'll 
go  along  with  you." 

So  Mrs.  Field  stood  back  and  waited, 
while  her  neighbor  pushed  forward  to  the 
counter.  After  a  little  she  drew  the  letter 
from  her  pocket  and  studied  the  superscrip 
tion.  The  post-mark  was  Elliot.  She  sup 
posed  the  letter  to  be  from  her  dead  sister's 
father-in-law,  who  lived  there. 

"I  may  jest  as  well  open  it  an'  see  what 
it  is  W7hile  I'm  waitin',"  she  thought. 

She  tore  open  the  envelope  slowly  and 
clumsily  with  her  stiff  fingers,  and  held  up 
the  letter  so  the  light  struck  it.  She  could 
not  read  strange  writing  easily,  and  this 
was  a  nearly  illegible  scrawl.  However, 
after  the  first  few  words,  she  seemed  to  ab 
sorb  it  by  some  higher  faculty  than  reading. 


JANE    FIELD  2Q 

In  a  short  time  she  had  the  gist  of  the  letter. 
It  was  from  a  lawyer  who  signed  himself 
Daniel  Tuxbury.  He  stated  formally  that 
Thomas  Maxwell  was  dead;  that  he  had 
left  a  will  greatly  to  Esther  Maxwell's  ad 
vantage,  and  that  it  would  be  advisable  for 
her  to  come  to  Elliot  at  an  early  date  if 
possible.  Inclosed  was  a  copy  of  the  will. 
It  was  dated  several  years  ago.  All  Thomas 
Maxwell's  property  was  bequeathed  with 
out  reserve  to  his  son's  widow,  Esther  Max 
well,  should  she  survive  him.  In  case  of 
her  decease  before  his  own,  the  whole  was 
to  revert  to  his  brother's  daughter,  Flora 
Maxwell. 

Jane  Field  read  the  letter  through  twice, 
then  she  folded  it,  replaced  it  in  the  envel 
ope,  and  stood  erect  by  the  store  door.  She 
could  see  Mrs.  Green's  broad  shawled  back 
among  the  customers  at  the  calico  counter. 
Once  in  a  while  she  looked  around  with  a 
beseeching  and  apologetic  smile. 

Mrs.  Field  thought,  "  I  won't  say  a  word 
to  her  about  it."  However,  she  was  con 
scious  of  no  evil  motive;  it  was  simply  be 
cause  she  was  naturally  secretive.  She 
looked  pale  and  rigid. 


30  JANE    FIELD 

Mrs.  Green  remarked  it  when  she  finally 
approached  with  her  parcel  of  calico. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Mis'  Field?" 
she  exclaimed.  "You  ain't  sick,  be  you?" 

"No.      Why?" 

"  Seems  to  me  you  look  dreadful  pale.  It 
was  too  bad  to  keep  you  standin'  there  so 
long,  but  I  couldn't  get  waited  on  before. 
I  think  Mr.  Robbinshad  ought  to  have  more 
help.  It's  too  much  for  him  with  only  two 
clerks,  an'  the  post-office  to  tend,  too.  I 
see  you  got  a  letter."  Mrs.  Field  nodded. 
The  two  women  went  down  the  steps  into 
the  street. 

"How's  Lois  to-night?"  Mrs.  Green 
asked  as  they  went  along. 

"  I  guess  she's  about  as  usual.  She 
didn't  say  but  what  she  was." 

"She  ain't  left  off  her  school,  has  she?" 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Field,  stiffly,  "she 
ain't." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Green  stopped  and  laid  a 
heavy  hand  on  Mrs.  Field's  arm.  "Look 
here,  Mis'  Field,  I  dun'no'  as  you'll  thank 
me  for  it,  but  I'm  goin'  to  speak  real 
plain  to  you.  the  way  I'd  thank  anybody 
to  if  'twas  my  Jenny.  I'm  dreadful  afraid 


JANE    FIELD  31 

you  don't  realize  how  bad  Lois  is,  Mis' 
Field." 

"  Mebbe  I  don't."  Mrs.  Field's  voice 
sounded  hard. 

The  other  woman  looked  perplexedly  at 
her  for  a  moment,  then  she  went  on : 

"  Well,  if  you  do,  mebbe  I  hadn't  ought  to 
said  anything;  but  I  was  dreadful  afraid 
you  didn't,  an'  then  when  you  come  to,  per 
haps  when  'twas  too  late,  you'd  never 
forgive  yourself.  She  hadn't  ought  to  teach 
school  another  day,  Mis'  Field." 

"I  dun'no'  how  it's  goin'  to  be  helped," 
Mrs.  Field  said  again,  in  her  hard  voice. 

"Mis'  Field,  I  know  it  ain't  any  of  my 
business,  an'  I  don't  know  but  you'll  think 
I'm  interfering  but  I  can't  help  it  nohow 
when  I  think  of — my  Abby,  an'  how — she 
went  down.  Ain't  you  got  anybody  that 
could  help  you  a  little  while  till  she  gets 
better  an'  able  to  work?" 

"I  dun'no'  of  anybody." 

"  Wouldn't  your  sister's  husband's  father  ? 
Ain't  he  got  considerable  property?" 

Mrs.  Field  turned  suddenly,  her  voice 
sharpened.  "I've  asked  him  all  I'm  ever 
goin'  to — there!  I  let  Esther's  husband 


32  JANE    FIELD 

have  fifteen  hundred  dollars  that  my  poor 
husband  saved  out  of  his  hard  earnin's,  an' 
he  lost  it  in  his  business;  an'  after  he  died 
I  wrote  to  his  father,  an'  I  told  him  about 
it.  I  thought  mebbe  he'd  be  willin'  to  be 
fair,  an'  pay  his  son's  debts,  if  he  didn't 
have  much  feelin'.  There  was  Esther  an' 
Lois  an'  me,  an'  not  a  cent  to  live  on,  an' 
Esther  she  was  beginnin'  to  be  feeble.  But 
he  jest  sent  me  back  my  letter,  an'  he'd 
wrote  on  the  back  of  it  that  he  wa'n't  re 
sponsible  for  any  of  his  son's  debts.  I  said 
then  I'd-  never  go  to  him  agin,  and  I 
didn't;  an'  Esther  didn't  when  she  was 
sick  an'  dyin' ;  an'  I  never 'let  him  know 
when  she  died,  an'  I  don't  s'pose  he  knows 
she  is  dead  to  this  day." 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Field,  you  didn't  have  to  lose 
all  that  money!  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,  every  dollar  of  it." 

"I  declare  it's  wicked." 

"There's  a  good  many  things  that's 
wicked,  an'  sometimes  I  think  some  things 
ain't  wicked  that  we  ve  always  thought  was. 
I  don't  know  but  the  Lord  meant  everybody 
to  have  what  belonged  to  them  in  spite  of 
everything." 


JANE    FIELD  33 

Mrs.  Green  stared.  "  I  guess  I  don't 
know  jest  what  you  mean,  Mis'  Field." 

"I  meant  everybody  ought  to  have  what's 
their  just  due,  an'  I  believe  the  Lord  will 
uphold  them  in  it.  I've  about  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  folks  ought  to  lay  hold  of 
justice  themselves  if  there  ain't  no  other 
way,  an'  that's  what  we've  got  hands  for." 
Suddenly  Mrs.  Field's  manner  changed. 
"I  know  Lois  hadn't  ought  to  be  teachin' 
school  as  well  as  you  do,"  said  she.  "I 
ain't  said  much  about  it,  it  ain't  my  way, 
but  I've  known  it  all  the  time." 

"  She'd  ought  to  take  a  vacation,  Mis' 
Field,  an'  get  away  from  here  for  a  spell. 
Folks  say  Green  River  ain't  very  healthy. 
They  say  these  low  meadow-lands  are  bad. 
I  worried  enough  about  it  after  my  Abby 
died,  thinkin'  what  might  have  been  done. 
It  does  seem  to  me  that  if  something  was 
done  right  away,  Lois  might  get  up;  but 
there  ain't  no  usewaitin'.  I've  seen  young 
girls  go  down;  it  seems  sometimes  as  if 
there  wa'n't  nothin'  more  to  them  than 
flowers,  an'  they  fade  away  in  a  day.  I've 
been  all  through  it.  Mis'  Field,  you  don't 
mind  my  speakin'  so,  do  you?  Oh,  Mis' 
3 


34  JANE    FIELD 

Field,  don't  feel  so  bad!  I'm  real  sorry  I 
said  anythin'." 

Mrs.  Field  was  shaking  with  great  sobs. 
"I  ain't — blamin'  you,  "  she  said,  brokenly. 

Mrs.  Green  got  out  her  own  handkerchief. 
"  Mis'  Field,  I  wouldn't  have  spoken  a 
word,  but — I  felt  as  if  something  ought  to 
be  done,  if  there  could  be;  an' — I  thought 
— so  much  about  my — poor  Abby.  Lois 
always  makes  me  think  of  her;  she's  jest 
about  her  build;  an' — I  didn't  know  as  you 
— realized." 

"I  realized  enough,"  returned  Mrs.  Field, 
catching  her  breath  as  she  walked  on. 

"  Now  I  hope  you  don't  feel  any  worse  be 
cause  I  spoke  as  I  did,"  Mrs.  Green  said, 
when  they  reached  the  gate  of  the  Pratt 
house. 

"You  ain't  told  me  anything  I  didn't 
know,"  replied  Mrs.  Field. 

Mrs.  Green  felt  for  one  of  her  distorted 
hands;  she  held  it  a  second,  then  she 
dropped  it.  Mrs.  Field  let  it  hang  stiffly 
the  while.  It  was  a  fervent  demonstration 
to  them,  the  evidence  of  unwonted  excite 
ment  arid  the  deepest  feeling.  When  Mrs. 
Field  entered  her  sitting-room,  the  first  ob- 


JANE    FIELD  35 

ject  that  met  her  eyes  was  Lois'  face.  She 
was  tilted  back  in  the  rocking-chair,  her 
slender  throat  was  exposed,  her  lips  were 
slightly  parted,  and  there  was  a  glassy  gleam 
between  her  half-open  eyelids.  Her  mother 
stood  looking  at  her. 

Suddenly  Lois  opened  her  eyes  wide  and 
sat  up.  "  What  are  you  standing  there 
looking  at  me  so  for,  mother?"  she  said, 
in  her  weak,  peevish  voice. 

"I  ain't  lookin'  at  you,  child.  I've  jest 
come  home  from  meetin'.  I  guess  you've 
been  asleep." 

"  I  haven't  been  asleep  a  minute.  I  heard 
you  open  the  outside  door." 

Mrs.  Field's  hand  verged  toward  the  letter 
in  her  pocket.  Then  she  began  untying 
her  bonnet. 

Lois  arose,  and  lighted  another  lamp. 
"Well,  I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed,"  said  she. 

"Wait  a  minute,"   her  mother  returned. 

Lois  paused  inquiringly. 

"Never  mind,"  her  mother  said,  hastily. 
"You  needn't  stop.  I  can  tell  you  jest  as 
well  to-morrow." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  Nothin'  of  any  account.     Run  along." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  next  morning  Lois  had  gone  to  her 
school  and  her  mother  had  not  yet  shown 
the  letter  to  her.  She  went  about  as  usual, 
doing  her  housework  slowly  and  vigorously. 
Mrs.  Field's  cleanliness  was  proverbial  in 
this  cleanly  New  England  neighborhood. 
It  almost  amounted  to  asceticism;  her 
rooms,  when  her  work  was  finished,  had  the 
bareness  and  purity  of  a  nun's  cell.  There 
was  never  any  bloom  of  dust  on  Mrs.  Field's 
furniture;  there  was  only  the  hard,  dull 
glitter  of  the  wood.  Her  few  chairs  and 
tables  looked  as  if  waxed;  the  paint  was 
polished  in  places  from  her  doors  and  win 
dow-casings;  her  window-glass  gave  out 
green  lights  like  jewels;  and  all  this  she 
did  with  infinite  pains  and  slowness,  as 
there  was  hardly  a  natural  movement  left  in 
her  rheumatic  hands.  But  there  was  in  her 
nature  an  element  of  stern  activity  that 
must  have  its  outcome  in  some  direction, 
36 


JANE    FIELD  37 

and  it  took  the  one  that  it  could  find. 
Jane  had  used  to  take  in  sewing  before  her 
hands  were  diseased.  In  her  youth  she  had 
learned  the  trade  of  a  tailoress;  when 
ready-made  clothing,  even  for  children, 
came  into  use,  she  made  dresses.  Her 
dresses  had  been  long-waisted  and  stiffly 
boned,  with  high,  straight  biases,  seem 
ingly  fitted  to  her  own  nature  instead  of 
her  customers'  forms;  but  they  had  been 
strongly  and  faithfully  sewed,  and  her 
stitches  held  fast  as  the  rivets  on  a  coat  of 
mail.  Now  she  could  not  sew.  She  could 
knit,  and  that  was  all,  besides  her  house 
work,  that  she  could  do. 

This  morning,  while  dusting  a  little  tri 
angular  what-not  that  stood  in  a  corner  of 
her  sitting-room,  she  came  across  a  small 
box  that  held  some  old  photographs.  The 
box  was  made  of  a  kind  of  stucco-work — 
shells  held  in  place  by  a  bed  of  putty. 
Amanda  Pratt  had  made  it  and  given  it  to 
her.  Mrs.  Field  took  up  this  box  and 
dusted  it  carefully;  then  she  opened  it,  and 
took  out  the  photographs  one  by  one. 

After  a  while  she  stopped;  she  did  not 
take  out  any  more,  but  she  looked  intently 


38  JANE    FIELD 

at  one;  then  she  replaced  all  but  that  one, 
got  painfully  up  from  the  low  foot-stool 
where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  went  out  of 
her  room  across  the  entry  to  Amanda's,  with 
the  photograph  in  her  hand. 

Amanda  sat  at  her  usual  window,  sewing 
on  her  rug.  The  sunlight  came  in,  and  her 
shadow,  set  in  a  bright  square,  wavered  on 
the  floor;  the  clock  out  in  the  kitchen 
ticked.  Amanda  looked  up  when  Mrs. 
Field  entered.  "Oh,  it's  you?"  said  she. 
"I  wondered  who  was  comin'.  Set  down, 
won't  you? " 

Mrs.  Field  went  over  to  Amanda  and  held 
out  the  photograph.  "  I  want  to  see  if  you 
can  tell  me  who  this  is." 

Amanda  took  the  photograph  and  held  it 
toward  the  light.  She  compressed  her  lips 
and  wrinkled  her  forehead.  "Why,  it's  you, 
of  course — ain't  it?" 

Mrs.  Field  made  no  reply;  she  stood 
looking  at  her. 

"Why,  ain't  it  you?"  Amanda  asked, 
looking  from  the  picture  to  her  in  a  bewil 
dered  way. 

"No;  it's  Esther." 

"Esther?" 


JANE    FIELD  39 

"Yes,  it's  Esther." 

"Well,  I  declare!     When  was  it  took?" 

"  About  ten  years  ago,  when  she  was  in 
Elliot." 

"Well,  all  I've  got  to  say  is,  if  anybody 
had  asked  me,  I'd  have  said  it  was  took  for 
you  yesterday.  Why,  Mis'  Field,  what's 
the  matter? " 

"There  ain't  anything  the  matter." 

"Why,  you  look  dreadfully." 

Mrs.  Field's  face  was  pale,  and  there  was 
a  curious  look  about  her  whole  figure.  It 
seemed  as  if  shrinking  from  something, 
twisting  itself  rigidly,  as  a  fossil  tree  might 
shrink  in  a  wind  that  could  move  it. 

"I  feel  well  'nough,"  said  she.  "  I  guess 
it's  the  light." 

"Well,  mebbe  'tis,"  replied  Amanda,  still 
looking  anxiously  at  her.  "  Of  course  you 
know  if  you  feel  well,  but  you  do  look 
dreadful  white  to  me.  Don't  you  want 
some  water,  or  a  swaller  of  cold  tea?" 

"No,  I  don't  want  a  single  thing;  I'm 
well  enough."  Mrs.  Field's  tone  was  al 
most  surly.  She  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
photograph.  "I  must  be  goin',"  she  con 
tinued;  "I  ain't  got  my  dustin' done.  I  jest 


40  JANE    FIELD 

come  across  this,  an'  I  thought  I'd  show  it 
to  you,  an'  see  what  you  said." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  have  dreamed  but 
what  it  was  yours;  but  then  you  an'  your 
sister  did  look  jest  alike.  I  never  could 
tell  you  apart  when  you  first  came  here." 

"  Folks  always  said  we  looked  alike.  We 
always  used  to  be  took  for  each  other  when 
we  was  girls,  an'  I  think  we  looked  full  as 
much  alike  after  our  hair  begun  to  turn. 
Mine  was  a  little  lighter  than  hers,  an'  that 
made  some  difference  betwixt  us  before.  It 
didn't  show  when  we  was  both  gray." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  'twould.  Well, 
I  must  say,  I  shouldn't  dream  but  what 
that  picture  was  meant  for  you." 

Mrs.  Field  took  her  way  out  of  the  room. 

"How's  Lois  this  mornin'  ? "  Amanda 
called  after  her. 

"About  the  same,  I  guess." 

"I  saw  her  goin'  out  of  the  yard  this 
mornin',  an'  I  thought  she  walked  dreadful 
weak." 

"  I  guess  she  don't  walk  any  too  strong." 

When  Mrs.  Field  was  in  her  own  room 
she  stowed  away  the  photograph  in  the  shell 
box;  then  she  got  a  little  broom  and 


JANE    FIELD  41 

brushed  the  shell-work  carefully;  she 
thought  it  looked  dusty  in  spite  of  her  rub 
bing. 

When  the  dusting  was  done  it  was  time 
for  her  to  get  her  dinner  ready.  Indeed, 
there  was  not  much  leisure  for  Mrs.  Field 
all  day.  She  seldom  sat  down  for  long  at  a 
time.  From  morning  until  night  she  kept 
up  her  stiff  resolute  march  about  her  house. 

At  half-past  twelve  she  had  the  dinner  on 
the  table,  but  Lois  did  not  come.  Her 
mother  went  into  the  sitting-room,  sat  down 
beside  a  window,  and  watched.  The  town 
clock  struck  one.  Mrs.  Field  went  out 
doors  and  stood  by  the  front  gate,  looking 
down  the  road.  She  saw  a  girl  coming  in 
the  distance  with  a  flutter  of  light  skirts,  and 
she  exclaimed  with  gladness,  "  There  she  is !" 
The  girl  drew  nearer,  and  she  saw  it  was  Ida 
Starr  in  a  dress  that  looked  like  Lois'. 

The  girl  stopped  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Field 
at  the  gate.  "  Good-morning,"  said  she. 

"  Good-mornin',  Ida." 

"It's  a  beautiful  day." 

Mrs.  Field  did  not  reply;  she  gazed  past 
her  down  the  road,  her  face  all  one  pale 
frown. 


42  JANE    FIELD 

The  girl  looked  curiously  at  her.  "I 
hope  Lois  is  pretty  well  this  morning?"  she 
said,  in  her  amiable  voice. 

Mrs.  Field  responded  with  a  harsh  out 
burst  that  fairly  made  her  start  back. 

"No,"  she  cried  out,  "she  ain't  well; 
she's  sick.  She  wa'n't  fit  to  go  to  school. 
She  couldn't  hardly  crawl  out  of  the  yard. 
She  ain't  got  home,  an'  I'm  terrible  worried. 
I  dun'no'  but  she's  fell  down." 

"  Maybe  she  just  thought  she  wouldn't 
come  home." 

"No;  that  ain't  it.  She  never  did  such 
a  thing  as  that  without  saying  something 
about  it;  she'd  know  I'd  worry." 

Mrs.  Field  craned  her  neck  farther  over 
the  gate,  and  peered  down  the  road.  Be 
side  the  gate  stood  two  tall  bushes,  all 
white  with  flowers  that  grew  in  long  white 
racemes,  and  they  framed  her  distressed 
face. 

"Look  here,  Mrs.  Field,"  said  the  girl, 
"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  The  school- 
house  isn't  much  beyond  my  house ;  I'll  just 
run  over  there  and  see  if  there's  anything 
the  matter;  then  I'll  come  back  right  off, 
and  let  you  know." 


5  o 


| 


JANE    FIELD  43 

"Oh,  will  you?" 

"  Of  course  I  will.  Now  don't  you  worry, 
Mrs.  Field;  I  don't  believe  it's  anything." 

The  girl  nodded  back  at  her  with  her 
pretty  smile;  then  she  sped  away  with  a 
light  tilting  motion.  Mrs.  Field  stood  a 
few  minutes  longer,  then  she  went  up  the 
steps  into  the  house.  She  opened  Amanda 
Pratt's  door  instead  of  her  own,  and  went 
through  the  sitting-room  to  the  kitchen, 
from  whence  she  could  hear  the  clink  of 
dishes. 

"Lois  ain't  got  home  yet,"  said  she, 
standing  in  the  doorway. 

Amanda  set  down  the  dish  she  was  wip 
ing.  "  Mis'  Field,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"What  I  say." 

"  Ain't  she  got  home  yet  ?  " 

"No,  she  ain't." 

"Why,  it's  half-past  one  o'clock!  She 
ain't  comin' ;  it's  time  for  school  to  begin. 
Look  here,  Mis'  Field,  I  guess  she  felt 
kind  of  tired,  an'  thought  she  wouldn't 
come." 

Mrs.  Field  shook  her  head  with  a  sort  of 
remorselessness  toward  all  comfort.  "  She's 
fell  down." 


44  JANE    FIELD 

"Oh,  Mis'  Field!  you  don't  s'pose  so?" 

"The  Starr  girl's  gone  to  find  out." 

Mrs.  Field  turned  to  go. 

"Hadn't  you  better  stay  here  till  she 
comes?"  asked  Amanda,  anxiously. 

"No;  I  must  go  home."  Suddenly  Mrs. 
Field  looked  fiercely  around.  "I'll  tell 
you  what  'tis,  Mandy  Pratt,  an'  you  mark 
my  words!  I  ain't  goin'  to  stan'  this  kind 
of  work  much  longer!  I  ain't  goin'  to  see 
all  the  child  I've  got  in  the  world  murdered ; 
for  that's  what  it  is — it's  murder!  " 

Mrs.  Field  went  through  the  sitting-room 
with  a  stiff  rush,  and  Amanda  followed  her. 

"Oh,  Mis'  Field,  don't  take  on  so — 
don't!  "  she  kept  saying. 

Mrs.  Field  went  through  the  house  into 
her  own  kitchen.  The  little  white-laid  table 
stood  against  the  wall ;  the  tea-kettle 
steamed  and  rocked  on  the  stove;  the  room 
was  full  of  savory  odors.  Mrs.  Field  set  the 
tea-kettle  back  where  it  would  not  boil  so 
hard.  These  little  household  duties  had 
become  to  her  almost  as  involuntary  as  the 
tick  of  her  own  pulses.  No  matter  what 
hours  of  agony  they  told  off,  the  pulses 
ticked;  and  in  every  stress  of  life  she  would 


JANE    FIELD  45 

set  the  tea-kettle  back  if  it  were  necessary. 
Amanda  stood  in  the  door,  trembling.  All 
at  once  there  was  a  swift  roll  of  wheels  in 
the  yard  past  the  window.  "Somebody's 
come!"  gasped  Amanda.  Mrs.  Field 
rushed  to  the  back  door,  and  Amanda  after 
her.  There  was  a  buggy  drawn  up  close  to 
the  step,  and  a  man  was  trying  to  lift  Lois 
out. 

Mrs.  Field  burst  out  in  a  great  wail. 
"Oh,  Lois!  Lois!  She's  dead — she's  dead!" 

"No,  she  ain't  dead, "  replied  the  man,  in 
a  drawling,  jocular  tone.  "  She's  worth  a 
dozen  dead  ones — ain't  you,  Lois?  I  found 
her  layin'  down  side  of  the  road  kind  of 
tuckered  out,  that's  all,  and  I  thought  I'd 
give  her  a  lift.  Don't  you  be  scared,  Mis' 
Field.  Now,  Lois,  you  jest  rest  all  your 
heft  on  me." 

Lois'  pale  face  and  little  reaching  hands 
appeared  around  the  wing  of  the  buggy. 
Amanda  ran  around  to  the  horse's  head. 
He  did  not  offer  to  start;  but  she  stood 
there,  and  said,  "Whoa,  whoa,"  over  and 
over,  in  a  pleading,  nervous  voice.  She  was 
afraid  to  touch  the  bridle;  she  had  a  great 
terror  of  horses. 


46  JANE    FIELD 

The  man,  who  was  Ida  Starr's  father, 
lifted  Lois  out,  and  carried  her  into  the 
house.  She  struggled  a  little. 

"I  can  walk,"  said  she,  in  a  weakly  in 
dignant  voice. 

Mr.  Starr  carried  her  into  the  sitting- 
room  and  laid  her  down  on  the  sofa.  She 
raised  herself  immediately,  and  sat  up  with 
a  defiant  air. 

"Oh,  dear  child,  do  lay  down,"  sobbed 
her  mother. 

She  put  her  hand  on  Lois'  shoulder  and 
tried  to  force  her  gently  backward,  but  the 
girl  resisted. 

"Don't,  mother,"  said  she.  "I  don't 
want  to  lie  down." 

Amanda  had  run  into  her  own  room  for  the 
camphor  bottle.  Now  she  leaned  over  Lois 
and  put  it  to  her  nose.  "  Jest  smell  of  this  a 
little,"  she  said.  Lois  pushed  it  away  feebly. 

"I  guess  Lois  will  have  to  take  a  little 
vacation,"  said  Mr.  Starr.  "  I  guess  I  shall 
have  to  see  about  it,  and  let  her  have  a  lit 
tle  rest." 

He  was  one  of  the  school  committee. 

"I  don't  need  any  vacation,"  said  Lois, 
in  a  peremptory  tone. 


JANE    FIELD  47 

"I  guess  we  shall  have  to  see  about  it," 
repeated  Mr.  Starr.  There  was  an  odd  un 
dertone  of  decision  in  his  drawling  voice. 
He  was  a  large  man,  with  a  pleasant  face 
full  of  double  curves.  "  Good-day,"  said 
he,  after  a  minute.  "  I  guess  I  must  be 
goin'." 

"  Good-day,"  said  Lois.  "I'm  much 
obliged  to  you  for  bringing  me  home." 

"You're  welcome." 

Amanda  nodded  politely  when  he  with 
drew,  but  Mrs.  Field  never  looked  at  him. 
She  stood  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  Lois. 

"What  are  you  looking  at  me  so  for, 
mother?"  said  Lois,  impatiently,  turning 
her  own  face  away. 

Mrs.  Field  sank  down  on  her  knees  before 
the  sofa.  "Oh,  my  child!"  she  wailed. 
"My  child!  my  child!" 

She  threw  her  arms  around  the  girl's  slen 
der  waist,  and  clung  to  her  convulsively. 
Lois  cast  a  terrified  glance  up  at  Amanda. 

"Does  she  think  I  ain't  going  to  get 
well  ? "  she  asked,  as  if  her  mother  were 
not  present. 

"Of  course  she  don't,"  replied  Amanda, 
with  decision.  She  stooped  and  took  hold 


48  JANE    FIELD 

of  Mrs.  Field's  shoulders.  "Now  look 
here,  Mis'  Field,"  said  she,  "  you  ain't  act- 
in'  like  yourself.  You're  goin'  to  make 
Lois  sick,  if  she  ain't  now,  if  you  go  on 
this  way.  You  get  up  an'  make  her  a  cup 
of  tea,  an'  get  her  somethin'  to  eat.  Ten 
chances  to  one,  that's  all  that  ailed  her. 
I  don't  believe  she's  eat  enough  to-day  to 
keep  a  cat  alive." 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  moaned  Mrs. 
Field.  "  It's  jest  what  I  expected.  Oh, 
my  child!  my  child!  I  have  prayed  an' 
done  all  I  could,  an'  now  it's  come  to  this. 
I've  got  to  give  up.  Oh,  my  child!  my 
child!" 

It  was  to  this  mother  as  though  her 
daughter  was  not  there,  although  she  held 
her  in  her  arms.  She  was  in  that  abandon 
of  grief  which  is  the  purest  selfishness. 

Amanda  fairly  pulled  her  to  her  feet. 
"Mis'  Field,  I'm  ashamed  of  you!"  said 
she,  severely.  "  I  should  think  you  were 
beside  yourself.  Here's  Lois  better — " 

"  No,  she  ain't  better.      I  know." 

Mrs.  Field  straightened  herself,  and  went 
out  into  the  kitchen. 

Lois  looked  again  at  Amanda,  in  a  pite- 


JANE    FIELD  49 

ous,    terrified    fashion.     "Oh,"    said    she, 
"you  don't  think  I'm  so  very  sick,  do  you?" 

"Very  sick?  No;  of  course  you  ain't. 
Your  mother  got  dreadful  nervous  because 
you  didn't  come  home.  That's  what  made 
her  act  so.  You  look  a  good  deal  better 
than  you  did  when  you  first  came  in." 

"I  feel  better,"  said  Lois.  "  I  never  saw 
mother  act  so  in  my  life." 

"She  got  all  wrought  up,  waitin'.  If  I 
was  you,  I'd  lay  down  a  few  minutes,  jest 
on  her  account.  I  think  it  would  make 
her  feel  easier." 

"Well,  I  will,  if  you  think  I'd  better; 
but  there  ain't  a  mite  of  need  of  it." 

Lois  laid  her  head  down  on  the  sofa  arm. 

"That's  right,"  said  Amanda.  "You 
can  jest  lay  there  a  little  while.  I'm  goin' 
out  to  tell  your  mother  to  make  you  a  cup 
of  tea.  That'll  set  you  right  up." 

Amanda  found  Mrs.  Field  already  mak 
ing  the  tea.  She  measured  it  out  carefully, 
and  never  looked  around.  Amanda  stepped 
close  to  her. 

"Mis'    Field,"    she   whispered,   "I    hope 
you  wa'n't  hurt  by  what  I  said.      I  meant  it 
for  the  best." 
4 


50  JANE    FIELD 

"I  sha'n't  give  way  so  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Field.  Her  face  had  a  curious  determined 
expression. 

"I  hope  you  don't  feel  hurt?" 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  sha'n't  give  way  so 
again."  She  poured  the  boiling  water  into 
the  teapot,  and  set  it  on  the  stove. 

Amanda  looked  at  a  covered  dish  on  the 
stove  hearth.  "  What  was  you  goin'  to  have 
for  dinner?"  said  she. 

"  Lamb  broth.  I'm  goin'  to  heat  up  some 
for  her.  She  didn't  eat  hardly  a  mouthful 
of  breakfast." 

"That's  jest  the  thing  for  her.  I'll  get 
out  the  kettle  and  put  it  on  to  heat.  I 
dun'no'  of  anything  that  gits  cold  any 
quicker  than  lamb  broth,  unless  it's  love." 

Amanda  put  on  a  cheerful  air  as  she 
helped  Mrs.  Field.  Presently  the  two  wo 
men  carried  in  the  little  repast  to  Lois. 

"She's  asleep,"  whispered  Amanda,  who 
went  first  with  the  tea. 

They  stood  looking  at  the  young  girl, 
stretched  out  her  slender  length,  her  white 
delicate  profile  showing  against  the  black 
arm  of  the  sofa. 

Her  mother  caught  her  breath.      "  She's 


JANE    FIELD  51 

got  to  be  waked  up;  she's  got  to  have  some 
nourishment,  anyhow,"  said  she.  "Come, 
Lois,  wake  up,  and  have  your  dinner." 

Lois  opened  her  eyes.  All  the  animation 
and  defiance  were  gone  from  her  face.  She 
was  so  exhausted  that  she  made  no  resist 
ance  to  anything.  She  let  them  raise  her, 
prop  her  up  with  a  pillow,  and  nearly  feed 
her  with  the  dinner.  Then  she  lay  back, 
and  her  eyes  closed. 

Amanda  went  home,  and  Mrs.  Field  went 
back  to  the  kitchen  to  put  away  the  dinner 
dishes.  She  had  eaten  nothing  herself,  and 
now  she  poured  some  of  the  broth  into  a 
cup,  and  drank  it  down  with  great  gulps 
without  tasting  it.  It  was  simply  filling  of 
a  necessity  the  lamp  of  life  with  oil. 

After  her  housework  was  done,  she  sat 
down  in  the  kitchen  with  her  knitting. 
There  was  no  sound  from  the  other  room. 

The  latter  part  of  the  afternoon  Amanda 
came  past  the  window  and  entered  the  back 
door.  She  carried  a  glass  of  foaming  beer. 
Amanda  was  famous  through  the  neighbor 
hood  for  this  beer,  which  she  concocted 
from  roots  and  herbs  after  an  ancient  recipe. 
It  was  pleasantly  flavored  with  aromatic 


52  JANE    FIELD 

roots,  and  instinct  with  agreeable  bitterness, 
being  an  innocently  tonic  old-maiden  brew. 

"I  thought  mebbe  she'd  like  a  glass  of 
my  beer,"  whispered  Amanda.  "I  came 
round  the  house  so's  not  to  disturb  her. 
How  is  she? " 

"I  guess  she's  asleep.  I  ain't  heard  a 
sound." 

Amanda  set  the  glass  on  the  table. 
"  Don't  you  think  you'd  ought  to  have 
a  doctor,  Mis'  Field?"  said  she. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  Lois  could  have 
heard,  but  her  voice  came  shrilly  from  the 
other  room:  "No,  I  ain't  going  to  have  a 
doctor;  there's  no  need  of  it.  Isha'n'tlike 
it  if  you  get  one,  mother." 

"No,  you  sha'n't  have  one,  dear  child," 
her  mother  called  back.  "  She  was  always 
jest  so  about  havin'  a  doctor,"  she  whis 
pered  to  Amanda. 

"I'll  take  in  the  beer  if  she's  awake," 
said  Amanda. 

Lois  looked  up  when  she  entered.  "  I 
don't  want  a  doctor,"  said  she,  pitifully, 
rolling  her  blue  eyes. 

"Of  course  you  sha'n't  have  a  doctor  if 
you  don't  want  one,"  returned  Amanda, 


JANE    FIELD  53 

soothingly.  "  I  thought  mebbe  you'd  like  a 
glass  of  my  beer." 

Lois  drank  the  beer  eagerly,  then  she 
sank  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  "I'm  go 
ing  to  get  up  in  a  minute,  and  sew  on  my 
dress,"  she  murmured. 

But  she  did  not  stir  until  her  mother 
helped  her  to  bed  early  in  the  evening. 

The  next  day  she  seemed  a  little  better. 
Luckily  it  was  Saturday,  so  there  was  no 
worry  about  her  school  for  her.  She  would 
not  lie  down,  but  sat  in  the  rocking-chair 
with  her  needle-work  in  her  lap.  When 
any  one  came  in,  she  took  it  up  and  sewed. 
Several  of  the  neighbors  had  heard  she  was 
ill,  and  came  to  inquire.  She  told  them, 
with  a  defiant  air,  that  she  was  very  well, 
and  they  looked  shocked  and  nonplussed. 
Some  of  them  beckoned  her  mother  out  into 
the  entry  when  they  took  leave,  and  Lois 
heard  them  whispering  together. 

The  next  day,  Sunday,  Lois  seemed  about 
the  same.  She  said  once  that  she  was  go 
ing  to  church,  but  she  did  not  speak  of  it 
again.  Mrs.  Field  went.  She  suggested 
staying  at  home,  but  Lois  was  indignant. 

"  Stay  at  home  with  me,  no  sicker  than  I 


54  JANE    FIELD 

am!  I  should  think  you  were  crazy, 
mother,"  said  she. 

So  Mrs.  Field  got  out  her  Sunday  clothes 
and  went  to  meeting.  As  soon  as  she  had 
gone,  Lois  coughed ;  she  had  been  choking 
the  cough  back.  She  stood  at  the  window, 
well  back  that  people  might  not  see  her, 
and  watched  her  mother  pass  down  the 
street  with  her  stiff  glide.  Mrs.  Field's 
back  and  shoulders  were  rigidly  steady  when 
she  walked;  she  might  have  carried  a  jar  of 
water  on  her  head  without  spilling  it,  like 
an  Indian  woman.  Lois,  small  and  slight 
although  she  was,  walked  like  her  mother. 
She  held  herself  with  the  same  resolute 
stateliness,  when  she  could  hold  herself  at 
all.  The  two  women  might,  as  far  as  their 
carriage  went,  have  marched  in  a  battalion 
with  propriety. 

Lois  felt  a  certain  relief  when  her  mother 
had  gone.  Even  when  Mrs.  Field  made 
no  expression  of  anxiety,  there  was  a  covert 
distress  about  her  which  seemed  to  enervate 
the  atmosphere,  and  hinder  the  girl  in  the 
fight  she  was  making  against  her  own  weak 
ness.  Lois  had  a  feeling  that  if  nobody 
would  look  at  her  nor  speak  about  her  ill- 


SHE   WATCHED    HER    MOTHER   OUT   OF    SIGHT 


JANE    FIELD  55 

ness,  she  could  get  well  quickly  of  her 
self. 

As  for  Mrs.  Field,  she  was  no  longer 
eager  to  attend  meeting;  she  went  rather 
than  annoy  Lois.  She  was  present  at  both 
the  morning  and  afternoon  services.  They 
still  had  two  services  in  Green  River. 

Jane  Field,  sitting  in  her  place  in  church 
through  the  long  sermons,  had  a  mental 
experience  that  was  wholly  new  to  her. 
She  looked  at  the  white  walls  of  the  au 
dience-room,  the  pulpit,  the  carpet,  the 
pews.  She  noted  the  familiar  faces  of  the 
people  in  their  Sunday  gear, the  green  light 
stealing  through  the  long  blinds,  and  all 
these  accustomed  sights  gave  her  a  sense 
of  awful  strangeness  and  separation.  And 
this  impression  did  not  leave  her  when  she 
was  out  on  the  street  mingling  with  the 
homeward  people;  every  greeting  of  an  old 
neighbor  strengthened  it.  She  regarded  the 
peaceful  village  houses  with  their  yards 
full  of  new  green  grass  and  flowering  bushes, 
and  they  seemed  to  have  a  receding  dim 
ness  as  she  neared  some  awful  shore.  Even 
the  click  of  her  own  gate  as  she  opened  it, 
the  sound  of  her  own  feet  on  the  path,  the 


56  JANE    FIELD 

feel  of  the  door-latch  to  her  hand — all  the 
little  common  belongings  of  her  daily  life 
were  turned  into  so  many  stationary  land 
marks  to  prove  her  own  retrogression  and 
fill  her  with  horror. 

To-day,  when  people  inquired  for  Lois, 
her  mother  no  longer  gave  her  customary 
replies.  She  said  openly  that  her  daughter 
was  real  miserable,  and  she  was  worried 
about  her 

"I  guess  she's  beginning  to  realize  it," 
the  women  whispered  to  each  other  with  a 
kind  of  pitying  triumph.  For  there  is  a 
cerain  aggravation  in  our  friends'  not  own 
ing  to  even  those  facts  which  we  deplore  for 
them.  It  is  provoking  to  have  an  object  of 
pity  balk.  Mrs.  Field's  assumption  that 
her  daughter  was  not  ill  had  half  incensed 
her  sympathizing  neighbors;  even  Amanda 
had  marvelled  indignantly  at  it.  But  now 
the  sudden  change  in  her  friend  caused  her 
to  marvel  still  more.  She  felt  a  vague  fear 
every  time  she  thought  of  her.  After  Lois 
had  gone  to  bed  that  Sunday  night,  her 
mother  came  into  Amanda's  room,  and  the 
two  w^omen  sat  together  in  the  dusk.  It 
was  so  warm  that  Amanda  had  set  all  the 


JANE    FIELD  57 

windows  open,  and  the  room  was  full  of  the 
hollow  gurgling  of  the  frogs — there  was 
some  low  meadow-land  behind  the  house. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  you  think  of 
Lois?"  said  Mrs.  Field,  suddenly;  her 
voice  was  high  and  harsh. 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,  hardly,  Mis'  Field." 

"Well,  I  know.  She's  runnin'  down. 
She  won't  ever  be  any  better,  unless  I  can 
do  something.  She's  dyin'  for  the  want  of 
a  little  money,  so  she  can  stop  work  an'  go 
away  to  some  healthier  place  an'  rest.  She 
is;  the  Lord  knows  she  is."  Mrs.  Field's 
voice  was  solemn,  almost  oratorical. 

Amanda  sat  still;  her  long  face- looked 
pallid  and  quite  unmoved  in  the  low  light; 
she  was  thinking  what  she  could  say. 

But  Mrs.  Field  went  on;  she  was  herself 
so  excited  to  speech  and  action,  the  outward 
tendency  of  her  own  nature  was  so  strong, 
that  she  failed  to  notice  the  course  of  an 
other's.  "She  is,"  she  repeated,  argumen- 
tatively,  as  if  Amanda  had  spoken,  or  she 
was  acute  enough  to  hear  the  voice  behind 
silence;  "there  ain't  any  use  talkin'." 

There  was  a  pause,  a  soft  wind  came  into 
the  room,  the  noise  of  the  frogs  grew 


58  JANE    FIELD 

louder,  a  whippoorwill  called;  it  seemed  as 
if  the  wide  night  were  flowing  in  at  the 
windows. 

"What  I  want  to  know  is,"  said  Mrs. 
Field,  "  if  you  will  take  Lois  in  here  to 
meals,  an'  look  after  her  a  week  or  two. 
Be  you  willin'  to?  " 

"You  ain't  goin'  away,  Mis'  Field?" 
There  was  a  slow  and  contained  surprise  in 
Amanda's  tone. 

"Yes,  I  be;  to-morrow  mornin',  if  I  live, 
on  the  early  train.  I  be,  if  you're  willin' 
to  take  Lois.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  leave 
her  any  other  way  as  she  is  now.  You 
sha'n't-be  any  loser  by  it,  if  you'll  take 
her." 

"Where  be  you  goin',  Mis'  Field?" 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  say  anything  about 
it.  I  don't  want  it  all  over  town." 

"I  sha'n't  say  anything." 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  down  to  Elliot." 

"You  be?" 

"Yes,  I  be.  Old  Mr.  Maxwell's  dead. 
I  had  a  letter  a  night  or  two  ago." 

Amanda  gasped,  "  He's  dead  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  What  was  the  matter,  do  you  know  ?  " 


JANE    FIELD  59 

"  They  called  it  paralysis.  It  was  sud 
den." 

Amanda  hesitated.  "  I  s'pose — do  you 
know  anything  about — his  property  ?  "  said 
she. 

"Yes;  he  left  it  all  to  my  sister." 

"Why,  Mis'  Field!" 

"Yes;  he  left  every  cent  of  it  to  her." 

"Oh,  ain't  it  dreadful  she's  dead?" 

"It's  all  been  dreadful  right  along,"  said 
Mrs.  Field. 

"Of  course,"  said  Amanda,  "I  know 
she's  better  off  than  she'd  be  with  all  the 
money  in  the  world;  it  ain't  that;  but  it 
would  do  so  much  good  to  the  livin'.  Why, 
look  here,  Mis'  Field,  I  dun'no'  anything 
about  law,  but  won't  you  have  it  if  your 
sister's  dead  ?  " 

"I'm  goin'  down  there." 

"  It  seems  as  if  you'd  ought  to  have  some- 
thin'  anyway,  after  all  you've  done,  lettin' 
his  son  have  your  money  an'  everything." 

Amanda  spoke  with  stern  warmth.  She 
had  known  about  this  grievance  of  her 
neighbor's  for  a  long  time. 

"I'm  goin'  down  there,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Field. 


60  JANE    FIELD 

"I  would,"  said    Amanda. 

"I  hate  to  leave  Lois,"  said  Mrs.  Field; 
"but  I  don't  see  any  other  way." 

"I'll  take  her,"  said  Amanda,  "if  you're 
willin'  to  trust  her  with  me." 

"  I've  got  to,"  replied  Mrs.  Field. 

"Well,  I'll  do  the  best  I  can,"  replied 
Amanda. 

She  was  considerably  shaken.  She  felt 
her  knees  tremble.  It  was  as  if  she  were 
working  a  new  tidy  or  rug  pattern.  Any 
variation  of  her  peaceful  monotony  of  exist 
ence  jarred  her  whole  nature  like  heavy 
wheels,  and  this  was  a  startling  one. 

She  wondered  how  Mrs.  Field  could  bring 
herself  to  leave  Lois.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  must  have  hopes  of  all  the  old  man's 
property. 

After  Mrs.  Field  had  gone  home,  and  she, 
primly  comfortable  in  her  starched  and 
ruffled  dimitfes,  lay  on  her  high  feather 
bed  between  her  smooth  sheets,  she  settled 
it  in  her  own  mind  that  her  neighbor  would 
certainly  have  the  property.  She  wondered 
if  she  and  Lois  would  go  to  Elliot  to  live, 
and  who  would  live  in  her  tenement.  The 
change  was  hard  for  her  to  contemplate,  • 


JANE    FIELD  6l 

and  she  wept  a  little.  Many  a  happiness 
comes  to  its  object  with  outriders  of  sor 
rows  to  others. 

Poor  Amanda  bemoaned  herself  over  the 
changes  that  might  come  to  her  little  home, 
and  planned  nervously  her  manner  of  living 
with  Lois  during  the  next  week.  Amanda 
had  lived  entirely  alone  for  over  twenty 
years;  this  admitting  another  to  her  own 
territory  seemed  as  grave  a  matter  to  her  as 
the  admission  of  foreigners  did  to  Japan. 
Indeed,  all  her  kind  were  in  a  certain  way 
foreigners  to  Amanda ;  and  she  was  shy  of 
them,  she  had  so  withdrawn  herself  by  her 
solitary  life,  for  solitariness  is  the  farthest 
country  of  them  all. 

Amanda  did  not  sleep  much,  and  it  was 
very  early  in  the  morning — she  was  stand 
ing  before  the  kitchen  looking-glass,  twist 
ing  the  rosettes  of  her  front  hair — when 
Mrs.  Field  came  in  to  say  good-by.  Mrs. 
Field  was  gaunt  and  erect  in  her  straight 
black  clothes.  She  had  her  black  veil  tied 
over  her  bonnet  to  protect  it  from  dust,  and 
the  black  frame  around  her  strong-featured 
face  gave  her  a  rigid,  relentless  look,  like  a 
female  Jesuit.  Lois  came  faltering  behind 


62  JANE    FIELD 

her  mother.  She  had  a  bewildered  air,  and 
she  looked  from  her  mother  to  Amanda  with 
appealing  significance,  but  she  did  not 
speak. 

"Well,  I've  come  to  say  good-by,"  said 
Mrs.  Field. 

Amanda  had  one  side  of  her  front  hair 
between  her  lips  while  she  twisted  the  other; 
she  took  it  out.  "  Good-by,  Mis'  Field," 
she  said.  "I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  Lois. 
How  soon  do  you  s'pose  you'll  be  back?  " 

"It's  accordin'  to  how  I  get  along.  I've 
been  tellin'  Lois  she  ain't  goin'  to  school 
to-day.  She's  afraid  Mr.  Starr  will  put  Ida 
in  if  she  don't;  but  there  ain't  no  need  of 
her  worryin' ;  mebbe  a  way  will  be  opened. 
I  want  you  to  lookout  she  don't  go.  There 
ain't  no  need  of  it." 

"I'll  do  the  best  I  can,"  said  Amanda, 
with  a  doubtful  glance  at  Lois. 

Lois  said  nothing,  but  her  pale  little 
mouth  contracted  obstinately.  She  and 
Amanda  followed  her  mother  to  the  door. 
The  departing  woman  said  good-by,  and 
went  down  the  steps  over  the  terraces.  She 
never  looked  back.  She  went  on  out  the 


JANE    FIELD  63 

gate,  and  turned  into  the  long  road.  She 
had  a  mile  walk  to  the  railroad  station. 

Amanda  and  Lois  went  back  into  the  sit 
ting-room. 

"When  did  she  tell  you  she  was  going?" 
Lois  asked  suddenly. 

"Last  night." 

"She  didn't  tell  me  till  this  morning." 

Lois  held  her  head  high,  but  her  eyes 
were  surprised  and  pitiful,  and  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  drooped.  She  faced  about  to 
the  window  with  a  haughty  motion,  and 
watched  her  mother  out  of  sight,  a  gaunt, 
dark  old  figure  disappearing  under  low  green 
elm  branches. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  many  years  since  Mrs.  Field  had 
taken  any  but  the  most  trivial  journeys. 
Elliot  was  a  hundred  and  twenty  miles 
away.  She  must  go  to  Boston ;  then  cross 
the  city  to  the  other  depot,  where  she  would 
take  the  Elliot  train.  This  elderly  un 
sophisticated  woman  might  very  reasonably 
have  been  terrified  at  the  idea  of  taking  this 
journey  alone,  but  she  was  not.  She  never 
thought  of  it. 

The  latter  half  of  the  road  to  the  Green 
River  station  lay  through  an  unsettled  dis 
trict.  There  were  acres  of  low  birch  woods 
and  lusty  meadow-lands.  This  morning 
they  were  covered  with  a  gold-green  dazzle 
of  leaves.  To  one  looking  across  them,  they 
almost  seemed  played  over  by  little  green 
flames;  now  and  then  a  young  birch  tree 
stood  away  from  the  others,  and  shone  by 
itself  like  a  very  torch  of  spring.  Mrs. 
Field  walked  steadily  through  it.  She  had 
64 


JANE    FIELD  65 

never  paused  to  take  much  thought  of  the 
beauty  of  nature;  to-day  a  tree  all  alive 
and  twinkling  with  leaves  might,  for  all 
her  notice,  have  been  naked  and  stiff  with 
frost. 

She  did  not  seem  to  walk  fast,  but  her 
long  steps  carried  her  over  the  ground  well. 
It  was  long  before  train-time  when  she  came 
in  sight  of  the  little  station  with  its  project 
ing  piazza,  roofs.  She  entered  the  ladies' 
room  and  bought  her  ticket,  then  she  sat 
down  and  waited.  There  were  two  other 
women  there — middle-aged  countrywomen 
in  awkward  wool  gowns  and  flat  straw  bon 
nets,  with  a  certain  repressed  excitement  in 
their  homely  faces.  They  were  setting 
their  large,  faithful,  cloth-gaitered  feet  a 
little  outside  their  daily  ruts,  and  going  to 
visit  some  relatives  in  a  neighboring  town; 
they  were  almost  overcome  by  the  unusual- 
ness  of  it. 

Jane  Field  was  a  woman  after  their  kind, 
and  the  look  on  their  faces  had  its  grand 
multiple  in  the  look  on  hers.  She  had  not 
only  stepped  out  of  her  rut,  but  she  was  go 
ing  cut  of  sight  of  it  forever.  * 

She  sat  there  stiff  and  silent,  her  two  feet 
5 


66  JANE    FIELD 

braced  against  the  floor,  ready  to  lift  her  at 
the  signal  of  the  train,  her  black  leather 
bag  grasped  firmly  in  her  right  hand. 

The  two  women  eyed  her  furtively.  One 
nudged  the  other.  "Know  who  that  is?" 
she  whispered.  But  neither  of  them  knew. 
They  were  from  the  adjoining  town,  which 
this  railroad  served  as  well  as  Green  River. 

Sometimes  Mrs.  Field  looked  at  them,  but 
with  no  speculation ;  the  next  moment  she 
looked  in  the  same  way  upon  the  belongings 
of  the  little  country  depot — the  battered 
yellow  settees,  the  time-tables,  the  long 
stove  in  its  tract  of  littered  sawdust,  the 
man's  face  in  the  window  of  the  ticket- 
office. 

"Dreadful  cross-lookin',  ain't  she?"  one 
of  the  women  whispered  in  the  other's  ear. 

Jane  heard  the  whisper,  and  looked  at 
them.  The  women  gave  each  other  violent 
pokes/  they  reddened  and  tittered  nervously, 
then  they  tried  to  look  out  of  the  window 
with  an  innocent  and  absent  air.  But  they 
need  not  have  been  troubled.  Jane,  al 
though  she  heard  the  whisper  perfectly,  did 
not  connect  it  with  herself  at  all.  She 
never  thought  much  about  her  own  appear- 


JANE    FIELD  67 

ance;  this  morning  she  had  as  little  vanity 
as  though  she  were  dead. 

When  the  whistle  of  the  train  sounded, 
the  women  all  pushed  anxiously  out  on  the 
platform. 

"  Is  this  the  train  that  goes  to  Boston?" 
Mrs.  Field  asked  one  of  the  other  two. 

"  I  s'pose  so,"  she  replied,  with  a  recipro- 
cative  flutter.  "I'm  goin'  to  ask  so's  to 
be  sure.  I'm  goin'  to  Dale." 

"I  always  ask,  "her  friend  remarked,  with 
decision. 

When  the  train  stopped,  Mrs.  Field  in 
quired  of  a  brakeman.  She  was  hardly  sat 
isfied  with  his  affirmative  answer.  "Are 
you  the  conductor?"  said  she,  sternly  peer 
ing. 

The  young  fellow  gave  a  hurried  wave  of 
his  hand  toward  the  conductor,  "  There  he 
is,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Field  asked  him  also,  then  she 
hoisted  herself  into  the  car.  When  she  had 
taken  her  seat,  she  put  the  same  question 
to  a  woman  in  front  of  her. 

It  was  a  five-hours'  ride  to  Boston.  Mrs. 
Field  sat  all  the  while  in  her  place  with  her 
bag  in  her  lap,  and  never  stirred.  There 


68  JANE    FIELD 

was  a  look  of  rigid  preparation  about  her, 
as  if  all  her  muscles  were  strained  for  an 
instant  leap. 

Two  young  girls  in  an  opposite  seat 
noticed  her  and  tittered.  They  had  consid 
erable  merriment  over  her,  twisting  their 
pretty  silly  faces,  and  rolling  their  blue 
eyes  in  her  direction,  and  then  averting 
them  with  soft  repressed  chuckles. 

Occasionally  Mrs.  Field  looked  over  at 
them,  thought  of  her  Lois,  and  noted  their 
merriment  gravely.  She  never  dreamed 
that  they  were  laughing  at  her.  If  she  had, 
she  would  not  have  considered  it  twice. 

It  wats  four  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Field  ar 
rived  in  Boston.  She  had  been  in  the  city 
but  once  before,  when  she  was  a  young 
girl.  Still  she  set  out  with  no  hesitation 
to  walk  across  the  city  to  the  depot  where  she 
must  take  the  cars  for  Elliot.  She  could 
not  afford  a  carriage,  and  she  would  not 
trust  herself  in  a  street  car.  She  knew  her 
own  head  and  her  old  muscles;  she  could 
allow  for  their  limitations,  and  preferred  to 
rely  upon  them. 

Every  few  steps  she  stopped  and  asked 
a  question  as  to  her  route,  listening  sharply 


JANE    FIELD  69 

to  the  reply.  Then  she  went  straight 
enough,  speeding  between  the  informers 
like  guide-posts.  This  old  provincial 
threaded  the  city  streets  as  unappreciatively 
as  she  had  that  morning  the  country  one. 
Once  in  a  while  the  magnificence  of  some 
shop  window,  a  dark  flash  of  jet,  or  a  flutter 
of  lace  on  a  woman's  dress  caught  her  eye, 
but  she  did  not  see  it.  She  had  nothing  in 
common  with  anything  of  that  kind;  she 
had  to  do  with  the  primal  facts  of  life. 
Coming  as  she  was  out  of  the  country 
quiet,  she  was  quite  unmoved  by  the  thun 
dering  rush  of  the  city  streets.  She  might 
have  been  deaf  and  blind  for  all  the  impres 
sion  it  had  upon  her.  Her  own  nature  had 
grown  so  intense  that  it  apparently  had 
emanations,  and  surrounded  her  with  an 
atmosphere  of  her  own  impenetrable  to  the 
world. 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  she 
reached  her  station,  and  the  train  was 
ready.  It  was  half-past  five  when  she  ar 
rived  in  Elliot.  She  got  off  the  train  and 
stalked,  as  if  with  a  definite  object,  around 
the  depot  platform.  She  did  not  for  one 
second  hesitate  or  falter.  She  went  up  to 


70  JANE    FIELD 

a  man  who  was  loading  some  trunks  on  a 
wagon,  and  asked  him  to  direct  her  to  Law 
yer  Tuxbury's  office.  Her  voice  was  so 
abrupt  and  harsh  that  the  man  started. 

"Cross  the  track,  an'  go  up  the  street  till 
you  come  to  it,  on  the  right-hand  side,"  he 
answered.  Then  he  stared  curiously  after 
her  as  she  went  on. 

Lawyer  Tuxbury's  small  neat  sign  was 
fastened  upon  the  door  of  the  L  of  a  large 
white  house.  There  was  a  green  yard,  and 
some  newly  started  flower-beds.  In  one 
there  was  a  clump  of  yellow  daffodils. 
Two  yellow-haired  little  girls  were  playing 
out  in  the  yard.  They  both  stood  still, 
staring  with  large,  wary  blue  eyes  at  Mrs. 
Field  as  she  came  up  the  path.  She  never 
glanced  toward  them. 

She  stood  like  a  black-draped  statue  be 
fore  the  office  door,  and  knocked.  Nobody 
answered. 

She  knocked  again  louder.  Then  a  voice 
responded  "  Come  in."  Mrs.  Field  turned 
the  knob  carefully,  and  opened  the  door. 
It  led  directly  into  the  room.  There  was  a 
dull  oil-cloth  carpet,  some  beetling  cases 
of  heavy  books,  a  few  old  arm-chairs,  and 


JANE    FIELD  7  I 

one  battered  leather  easy-chair.  A  great 
desk  stood  against  the  farther  wall,  and  a 
man  was  seated  at  it,  with  his  back  toward 
the  door,  He  had  white  hair,  to  which  the 
sunlight  coming  through  the  west  window 
gave  a  red-gold  tinge. 

Mrs.  Field  stood  still,  just  inside  the 
door.  Apart  from  anything  else,  the  room 
itself  had  a  certain  awe-inspiring  quality 
for  her.  She  had  never  before  been  in  a 
lawyer's  office.  She  was  fully  possessed 
with  the  rural  and  feminine  ignorance  and 
holy  fear  of  all  legal  appurtenances.  From 
all  her  traditions,  this  office  door  should 
have  displayed  a  grinning  man  or  woman 
trap,  which  she  must  warily  shun. 

She  eyed  the  dusty  oil-cloth — the  files  of 
black  books — the  chairs — the  man  at  the 
desk,  with  his  gilded  white  head.  Rewrote 
on  steadily,  and  never  stirred  for  a  minute. 
Then  he  again  sang  out,  sharply,  "  Come  in. " 

He  was  deaf,  and  had,  along  with  his 
insensibility  to  sounds,  that  occasional  ab 
normal  perception  of  them  which  the  deaf 
seem  sometimes  to  possess.  He  often  heard 
sounds  when  none  were  recognizable  to 
other  people. 


72  JANE    FIELD 

Now,  evidently  having  perceived  no  re 
sult  from  his  first  response,  he  had  heard 
this  second  knock,  which  did  not  exist  ex 
cept  in  his  own  supposition  and  the  waiting 
woman's  intent.  She  had,  indeed,  just  at 
this  point  said  to  herself  that  she  would  slip 
out  and  knock  again  if  he  did  not  look 
around.  She  had  not  the  courage  to  speak. 
It  was  almost  as  if  the  deaf  lawyer,  piecing 
out  his  defective  ears  with  a  subtler  per 
ception,  had  actually  become  aware  of  her 
intention,  which  had  thundered  upon  him 
like  the  knock  itself. 

Mrs.  Field  made  an  inarticulate  response, 
and  took  a  grating  step  forward.  The  old 
man  turned  suddenly  and  saw  her.  She 
stood  back  again;  there  was  a  shrinking 
stiffness  about  her  attitude,  but  she  looked 
him  full  in  the  face. 

"  Why,  good-day !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Good- 
day,  madam.  I  didn't  hear  you  come  in." 

Mrs.  Field  murmured  a  good-day  in  re 
turn. 

"Take  a  seat,  madam."  The  lawyer  had 
risen,  and  was  advancing  toward  her.  He 
was  a  small,  sharp-eyed  man,  whose  youth 
ful  agility  had  crystallized  into  a  nervous 


JANE    FIELD  73 

pomposity.  Suddenly  he  stopped  short;  he 
had  passed  a  broad  slant  of  dusty  sunlight 
which  had  lain  between  him  and  his  visitor, 
and  he  could  see  her  face  plainly.  His 
own  elongated  for  a  second,  his  under  jaw 
lopped,  and  his  brows  contracted.  Then  he 
stepped  forward.  "Why,  Mrs.  Maxwell!" 
said  he;  "how  do  you  do?" 

"I'm  pretty  well,  thank  you,"  replied 
Mrs.  Field.  She  tried  to  bow,  but  her  back 
would  not  bend. 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  said  the 
lawyer.  "  I  recognize  you  perfectly  now. 
I  should  have  before,  if  the  sun  had  not 
been  in  my  eyes.  I  never  forget  a  face." 

He  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  shook  it 
up  and  down  effusively.  Then  he  pushed 
forward  the  leather  easy-chair  with  gracious 
insinuation.  Mrs.  Field  sat  down,  bolt- 
upright,  on  the  extreme  verge  of  it. 

The  lawyer  drew  a  chair  to  her  side, 
seated  himself,  leaned  forward  until  his 
face  fronted  hers,  and  talked.  His  manner 
was  florid,  almost  bombastic.  He  had  a 
fashion  of  working  his  face  a  good  deal  when 
he  talked.  He  conversed  quite  rapidly  and 
fluently,  but  was  wont  to  interlard  his  con- 


74  JANE    FIELD 

versation  with  what  seemed  majestically 
reflective  pauses,  during  which  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  tapped  the  arm 
slowly.  In  fact  his  flow  of  ideas  failed 
him  for  a  moment,  his  mind  being  so  con 
stituted  that  they  came  in  rapid  and  tem 
porary  bursts,  geyser  fashion.  He  inquired 
when  Mrs.  Field  arrived,  was  kindly  cir 
cumstantial  as  to  her  health,  touched 
decorously  but  not  too  mournfully  upon  the 
late  Thomas  Maxwell's  illness  and  decease. 
He  alluded  to  the  letter  which  he  had  writ 
ten  her,  mentioning  as  a  singular  coinci 
dence  that  at  the  moment  of  her  entrance 
he  was  engaged  in  writing  another  to  her, 
to  inquire  if  the  former  had  been  received. 

He  spoke  in  terms  of  congratulation  of 
the  property  to  which  she  had  fallen  heir, 
and  intimated  that  further  discussion  con 
cerning  it,  as  a  matter  of  business,  had  bet 
ter  be  postponed  until  morning.  Daniel 
Tuxbury  was  very  methodical  in  his  care 
for  himself,  and  was  loath  to  attend  to  any 
business  after  six  o'clock. 

Mrs.  Field  sat  like  a  bolt  of  iron  while 
the  lawyer  talked  to  her.  Unless  a  direct 
question  demanded  it,  she  never  spoke  her- 


JANE    FIELD  75 

self.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  it;  he 
had  enough  garnered-in  complacency  to  de 
light  himself,  as  a  bee  with  its  own  honey. 
He  rarely  realized  it  when  another  person 
did  not  talk. 

After  one  of  his  pauses,  he  sprang  up 
with  alacrity.  "Mrs.  Maxwell,  will  you 
be  so  kind  as  to  excuse  me  for  a  moment  ? " 
said  he,  and  went  out  of  the  office  with  a 
fussy  hitch,  as  if  he  wore  invisible  petti 
coats.  Mrs.  Field  heard  his  voice  in  the 
yard. 

When  he  returned  there  was  an  old  lady 
following  in  his  wake.  Mrs.  Field  saw  her 
before  he  did.  She  came  with  a  whispering 
of  silk,  but  his  deaf  ears  did  not  perceive 
that.  He  did  not  notice  her  at  all  until  he 
had  entered  the  office,  then  he  saw  Mrs. 
Field  looking  past  him  at  the  door,  and 
turned  himself. 

He  went  toward  her  with  a  little  flourish 
of  words,  but  the  old  lady  ignored  him  en 
tirely.  She  held  up  her  chin  with  a  kind 
of  ancient  pertness,  and  eyed  Mrs.  Field. 
She  was  a  small,  straight-backed  woman, 
full  of  nervous  vibrations.  She  stood  ap 
parently  still,  but  her  black  silk  whispered 


76  JANE    FIELD 

all  the  time,  and  loose  ends  of  black  ribbon 
trembled.  The  black  silk  had  an  air  of  old 
gentility  about  it,  but  it  was  very  shiny; 
there  were  many  bows,  but  the  ribbons  were 
limp,  having  been  pressed  and  dyed.  Her 
face,  yellow  and  deeply  wrinkled,  but 
sharply  vivacious,  was  overtopped  by  a 
bunch  of  purple  flowers  in  a  nest  of  rusty 
black  lace  and  velvet. 

So  far  Mrs.  Field  had  maintained  a  cer 
tain  strained  composure,  but  now  her  long, 
stern  face  began  flushing  beneath  this  old 
lady's  gaze. 

"I  conclude  you  know  this  lady,"  said 
the  lawyer,  with  a  blandly  facetious  air  to 
the  new-comer. 

At  that  she  stepped  forward  promptly, 
with  a  jerk  as  if  to  throw  off  her  irresolu 
tion,  and  a  certain  consternation.  "Yes,  I 
s'pose  I  do,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  like  a 
shrill  high  chirp.  "It's  Mis'  Maxwell, 
ain't  it — Edward's  wife?  How  do  you  do, 
Esther?  I  hadn't  seen  you  for  so  long,  I 
wasn't  quite  sure,  but  I  see  who  you  are 
now.  How  do  you  do?" 

"I'm  pretty  well,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Field,  with  a  struggle,  putting  her  twist- 


JANE    FIELD  77 

ed  hand  into  the  other  woman's,  extended 
quiveringly  in  a  rusty  black  glove. 

"When  did  you  come  to  town,  Esther?" 

"Jest  now." 

"Let  me  see,  where  from?  I  can't  seem 
to  remember  the  name  of  the  place  where 
you've  been  livin'.  I  know  it,  too." 

"Green  River." 

"Oh,  yes,  Green  River.  Well,  I'm  glad 
to  see  you,  Esther.  You  ain't  changed 
much,  come  to  look  at  you;  not  so  much  as 
I  have,  I  s'pose.  I  don't  expect  you'd 
know  me,  would  you?" 

"I — don't  know  as  I  would."  Mrs.  Field 
recoiled  from  a  lie  even  in  the  midst  of 
falsehood. 

The  old  lady's  face  contracted  a  little, 
but  she  could  spring  above  her  emotions. 
"Well,  I  don't  s'pose  you  would,  either," 
responded  she,  with  fine  alacrity.  "I've 
grown  old  and  wrinkled  and  yellow,  though 
I  ain't  gray,"  with  a  swift  glance  at  Mrs. 
Field's  smooth  curves  of  white  hair.  "You 
turned  gray  pretty  young,  didn't  you, 
Esther?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

The  old  lady's  front  hair  hung  in  dark- 


78  JANE    FIELD 

brown  spirals,  a  little  bunch  of  them  against 
either  cheek,  outside  her  bonnet.  She  set 
them  dancing  with  a  little  dip  of  her  head 
when  she  spoke  again.  "  I  thought  you 
did,"  said  she.  "Well,  you're  comin'  over 
to  my  house,  ain't  you,  Esther?  You'll 
find  a  good  many  changes  there.  My 
daughter  Flora  and  I  are  all  that's  left 
now,  you  know,  I  s'pose. " 

Mrs.  Field  moved  her  head  uncertainly. 
This  old  woman,  with  her  straight  demands 
for  truth  or  falsehood,  was  torture  to  her. 

"I  suppose  you'll  come  right  over  with 
me  pretty  soon,"  the  old  lady  went  on.  "  I 
don't  want  to  hurry  you  in  your  business 
with  Mr.  Tuxbury,  but  I  suppose  my  nephew 
will  be  home,  and — " 

"I'm  jest  as  much  obliged  to  you,  but  I 
guess  I'd  better  not.  I've  made  some  other 
plans,"  said  Mrs.  Field. 

"  Oh,  we  are  going  to  keep  Mrs.  Maxwell 
with  us  to-night,"  interposed  the  lawyer. 
He  had  stood  by  smilingly  while  the  two 
women  talked. 

"I'm  jest  as  much  obliged,  but  I  guess 
I'd  better  not,"  repeated  Mrs.  Field,  look 
ing  at  both  of  them. 


JANE    FIELD  79 

The  old  lady  straightened  herself  in  her 
flimsy  silk  draperies.  "Well,  of  course,  if 
you've  got  other  plans  made,  I  ain't  goin' 
to  urge  you,  Esther,"  said  she;  "but  any 
time  you  feel  disposed  to  come,  you'll  be 
welcome.  Good-evenin',  Esther.  Good- 
evenin',  Mr.  Tuxbury."  She  turned  with 
a  rustling  bob,  and  was  out  the  door. 

The  lawyer  pressed  forward  hurriedly. 
"Why,  Mrs.  Maxwell,  weren't  you  coming 
in?  Isn't  there  something  I  can  do  for 
you  ?  "  said  he. 

"No,  thank  you,"  replied  the  old  lady, 
shortly.  "I've  got  to  go  home;  it's  my 
tea-time.  I  was  goin'  by,  and  I  thought 
I'd  jest  look  in  a  minute;  that  was  all.  It 
wa'n't  anything.  Good-evenin'."  She 
was  half  down  the  walk  before  she  finished 
speaking.  She  never  looked  around. 

The  lawyer  turned  to  Mrs.  Field.  "  Mrs. 
Henry  Maxwell  was  not  any  too  much 
pleased  to  see  you  sitting  here,"  he  whis 
pered,  with  a  confidential  smile.  "  She 
wouldn't  say  anything;  she's  as  proud  as 
Lucifer;  but  she  was  considerably  taken 
aback." 

Mrs.  Field  nodded.     She  felt  numb.     She 


8o  JANE    FIELD 

had  not  understood  who  this  other  woman 
was.  She  knew  now — the  mother  of  the 
young  woman  who  was  the  rightful  heir  to 
Thomas  Maxwell's  property. 

"  The  old  lady  has  been  pretty  anxious," 
Mr.  Tuxbury  went  on.  "She's  been  in 
here  a  good  many  times — made  excuses  to 
come  in  and  see  if  I  had  any  news.  She 
has  been  twice  as  much  concerned  as  her 
daughter  about  it.  Well,  she  has  had  a 
pretty  hard  time.  That  branch  of  the 
family  lost  a  good  deal  of  property." 

Mrs.  Field  rose  abruptly.  "I  guess  I'd 
better  be  goin',"  said  she.  "It  must  be 
your  tea-time.  I'll  come  in  again  to-mor 
row." 

The  lawyer  put  up  his  hand  deprecatingly. 
"  Mrs.  Maxwell,  you  will,  of  course,  stay  and 
take  tea  with  us,  and  remain  with  us  to 
night." 

"I'm  jest  as  much  obliged  to  you  for  in- 
vitin'  me,  but  I  guess  I'd  better  be  goin'." 

"  My  sister  is  expecting  you.  You  re 
member  my  sister,  Mrs.  Lowe.  I've  just 
sent  word  to  her.  You  had  better  come 
right  over  to  the  house  with  me  now,  and 
to-morrow  morning  we  can  attend  to  busi- 


SHE   WALKED    ON,  WITH  HER   STERN,   IMPASSIVE    OLD 
FACE    SET    STRAIGHT    AHEAD" 


JANE    FIELD  8 1 

ness.     You    must    be    fatigued    with    your 
journey." 

"  I'm  real  sorry  if  your  sister's  put  herself 
out,  but  I  guess  I'd  better  not  stay." 

The  lawyer  turned  his  ear  interrogatively. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  didn't  quite 
understand.  You  think  you  can't  stay?" 

"I'm — much  obliged  to  your  sister  an' 
you  for  invitin*  me,  but — I  guess — I'd  bet 
ter — not." 

"Why  — but  — Mrs.  Maxwell!  Just  be 
seated  again  for  a  moment,  and  let  me  speak 
to  my  sister;  perhaps  she — " 

"I'm  jest  as  much  obliged  to  her,  but  I 
feel  as  if  I'd  better  be  goin'."  Mrs.  Field 
stood  before  him,  mildly  unyielding.  She 
seemed  to  waver  toward  his  will,  but  all  the 
time  she  abided  toughly  in  her  own  self 
like  a  willow  bough.  "But,  Mrs.  Max 
well,  what  can  you  do?"  said  the  lawyer, 
his  manner  full  of  perplexity,  and  impa 
tience  thinly  veiled  by  courtesy.  "The 
hotel  here  is  not  very  desirable,  and — " 

"  Can't  I  go  right  up  to — the  house  ?  " 

"The  Maxwell  house?" 

"Yes,  sir;  if  there  ain't  anything  to  hin 
der.  " 

6 


82  JANE    FIELD 

Mr.  Tuxbury  stared  at  her.  "Why,  I 
don't  know  that  there  is  really  anything  to 
hinder, "  he  said,  slowly.  "Although  it  is 
rather —  No,  I  don't  know  as  there  is  any 
actual  objection  to  your  going.  I  suppose 
the  house  belongs  to  you.  But  it  is  shut  up. 
I  think  you  would  find  it  much  pleasanter 
here,  Mrs.  Maxwell."  His  eyebrows  were 
raised,  his  mouth  pursed  up. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  go,  if  I  can  jest  as 
well  as  not;  if  I  can  get  into  the  house." 
Mrs.  Field  spoke  with  deprecating  persist 
ency. 

Mr.  Tuxbury  turned  abruptly  toward  his 
desk,  and  began  fumbling  in  a  drawer.  She 
stood  hesitatingly  watchful.  "  If  you  would 
jest  tell  me  where  I'd  find  the  key,"  she 
ventured  to  remark.  She  had  a  vague  idea 
that  she  would  be  told  to  look  under  a  par 
lor  blind  for  the  key,  that  being  the  inno 
cent  country  hiding-place  when  the  house 
was  left  alone. 

"  I  have  the  key,  and  I  will  go  to  the  house 
with  you  myself  directly." 

"  I  hate  to  make  you  so  much  trouble.  I 
guess  I  could  find  it  myself,  if — " 

"I  will  be  ready  immediately,  Mrs    Max- 


JANE    FIELD  83 

well,"  said  the  lawyer,  in  a  smoothly  con 
clusive  voice  which  abashed  her. 

She  stood  silently  by  the  door  until  he 
was  ready.  He  took  her  black  bag  peremp 
torily,  and  they  went  side  by  side  down  the 
street.  He  held  his  head  well  back,  his 
lips  were  still  tightly  pursed,  and  he  swung 
his  cane  with  asperity.  His  important  and 
irascible  nature  was  oddly  disturbed  by  this 
awkwardly  obstinate  old  woman  stalking 
at  his  side  in  her  black  clothes.  Feminine 
opposition,  even  in  slight  matters,  was  wont 
to  aggravate  him,  but  in  no  such  degree  as 
this.  He  found  it  hard  to  recover  his  usual 
courtesy  of  manner,  and  indeed  scarcely 
spoke  a  word  during  the  walk.  He  could 
not  himself  understand  his  discomposure. 
But  Mrs.  Field  did  not  seem  to  notice.  She 
walked  on,  with  her  stern,  impassive  old 
face  set  strarght  ahead.  Once  they  met  a 
young  girl  who  made  her  think  of  Lois,  her 
floating  draperies  brushed  against  her  black 
gown,  for  a  second  there  was  a  pale,  inno 
cent  little  face  looking  up  into  her  own. 

It  was  not  a  very  long  walk  to  the  Max 
well  house. 

"Here  we  are/'  said  the  lawyer,  coldly, 


84  JANE    FIELD 

and  unlatched  a  gate,  and  held  it  open  with 
stiff  courtesy  for  his  companion  to  pass. 

They  proceeded  in  silence  up  the  long 
curve  of  walk  which  led  to  the  front  door. 
The  walk  was  brown  and  slippery  with  pine 
needles.  Tall  old  pine  trees  stood  in 
groups  about  the  yard.  There  were  also 
elm  and  horse-chestnut  trees.  The  horse- 
chestnuts  were  in  blossom,  holding  up  their 
white  bouquets,  which  showed  dimly.  It 
was  now  quite  dusky. 

Back  of  the  trees  the  house  loomed  up. 
It  was  white  and  bulky,  with  fluted  cornices 
and  corner  posts,  and  a  pillared  porch  to 
the  front  door.  Mrs.  Field  passed  between 
the  two  outstanding  pillars,  which  reared 
themselves  whitely  over  her,  like  ghostly 
sentries,  and  stood  waiting  while  Mr.  Tux- 
bury  fitted  the  key  to  the  lock. 

It  took  quit©  a  little  time,  he  could  not 
see  very  well,  he  had  forgotten  his  specta 
cles  in  his  impatient  departure.  But  at  last 
he  jerked  open  the  door,  and  a  strange  con 
glomerate  odor,  the  very  breath  of  the  life 
of  the  old  Maxwell  house,  steamed  out  in 
their  faces. 

All    bridal    and    funeral  feasts,  all   daily 


JANE    FIELD  85 

food,  all  garments  which  had  hung  in  the 
closets  and  rustled  through  the  rooms,  every 
piece  of  furniture,  every  carpet  and  hanging 
had  a  part  in  it. 

The  rank  and  bitter  emanations  of  life,  as 
well  as  spices  and  sweet  herbs  and  delicate 
perfumes,  went  to  make  up  the  breath 
which  smote  one  in  the  face  upon  the  open 
ing  of  the  door.  Still  it  was  not  a  disagree 
able,  but  rather  a  suggestive  and  poetical 
odor,  which  should  affect  one  like  a  remi 
niscent  dream.  However,  the  village  peo 
ple  sniffed  at  it,  and  said  "How  musty 
that  old  house  is!  " 

That  was  what  Danie.  Tuxbury  said  now. 
"The  house  is  musty,"  he  remarked,  with 
stately  nose  in  the  air. 

Mrs.  Field  made  no  response.  She 
stepped  inside  at  once.  "  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you,"  said  she. 

The  lawyer  looked  at  her,  then  past  her 
into  the  dark  depths  of  the  house.  "You 
can't  see,"  said  he.  "You  must  let  me  go 
in  with  you  and  get  a  light."  He  spoke  in 
a  tone  of  short  politeness.  He  was  in  his 
heart  utterly  out  of  patience  with  this 
strange,  stiff  old  woman. 


86  JANE    FIELD 

"  I  guess  I  can  find  one.  I  hate  to  make 
you  so  much  trouble." 

Mr.  Tuxbury  stepped  forward  with  de 
cision,  and  began  fumbling  in  his  pocket 
for  a  match.  "  Of  course  you  cannot  find 
one  in  the  dark,  Mrs.  Maxwell,"  said  he, 
with  open  exasperation. 

She  said  nothing  more,  but  stood  meekly 
in  the  hall  until  a  light  flared  out  from  a 
room  on  the  left.  The  lawyer  had  found 
a  lamp,  he  was  himself  somewhat  familiar 
with  the  surroundings,  but  on  the  way  to  it 
he  stumbled  over  a  chair  with*  an  excla 
mation.  It  sounded  like  an  oath  to  Mrs. 
Field,  but  she  thought  she  must  be  mis 
taken.  She  had  never  in  her  life  heard 
many  oaths,  and  when  she  did  had  never 
been  able  to  believe  her  ears. 

"I  hope  you  didn't  hurt  you,"  said  she, 
deprecatingly,  stepping  forward. 

"I  am  not  hurt,  thank  you."  But  the 
twinge  in  the  lawyer's  ankle  was  confirming 
his  resolution  to  say  nothing  more  to  her 
on  the  subject  of  his  regret  and  unwilling 
ness  that  she  should  choose  to  refuse  his 
hospitality,  and  spend  such  a  lonely  and 
uncomfortable  night.  "I  won't  say  another 


JANE    FIELD  87 

word  to  her  about  it,"  he  declared  to  him 
self.  So  he  simply  made  arrangements 
with  her  for  a  meeting  at  his  office  the  next 
morning  to  attend  to  the  business  for  which 
there  had  been  no  time  to-night,  and  took 
his  leave. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  woman,"  was  his 
conclusion  of  the  story,  which  he  related  to 
his  sister  upon  his  return  home.  His  sister 
was  a  widow,  and  just  then  her  married 
daughter  and  two  children  were  visiting  her. 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  know  she  wa'n't 
comin',"  said  she.  "I  cut  the  fruit  cake 
an'  opened  a  jar  of  peach,  an'  I've  put  clean 
sheets  on  the  front  chamber  bed.  It's  made 
considerable  work  for  nothin'."  She  eyed, 
as  she  spoke,  the  two  children,  who  were 
happily  eating  the  peach  preserve.  She  and 
her  brother  were  both  quite  well-to-do,  but 
she  had  a  parsimonious  turn. 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  she'll  have  for 
supper,"  she  remarked  further. 

"I  didn't  ask  her,"  said  the  lawyer,  dryly, 
taking  a  sip  of  his  sauce.  He  was  rather 
glad  of  the  peach  himself. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  she'd  sleep  a  wink,  all 
alone  in  that  great  old  house.  I  know  I 


88  JANE    FIELD 

shouldn't,"  observed  the  children's  mother. 
She  was  a  fair,  fleshy,  quite  pretty  young 
woman. 

"That  woman  would  sleep  on  a  tomb 
stone  if  she  set  out  to,"  said  the  lawyer. 
His  speech,  when  alone  with  his  own  house 
hold,  was  more  forcible  and  not  so  well  reg 
ulated.  Indeed,  he  did  not  come  of  a  pol 
ished  family;  he  was  the  only  educated  one 
among  them.  His  sister,  Mrs.  Lowe,  re 
garded  him  with  all  the  deference  and 
respect  which  her  own  decided  and  self- 
sufficient  character  could  admit  of,  and 
often  sounded  his  praises  in  her  unrestrained 
New  England  dialect. 

"She  seemed  like  a  real  set  kind  of  a 
woman,  then?"  said  she  now. 

"Set  is  no  name  for  it,"  replied  her 
brother. 

"Well,  if  that's  so,  I  guess  old  Mr.  Max 
well  wa'n't  so  far  wrong  when  he  didn't 
have  her  down  here  before,"  she  remarked, 
with  a  judicial  air.  Her  spectacles  glit 
tered,  and  her  harsh,  florid  face  bent  se 
verely  over  the  sugar-bowl  and  the  cups  and 
saucers. 

The  lamp-light  was  mellow  in  the  neat, 


JANE    FIELD  89 

homely  dining-room,  and  there  was  a  soft 
aroma  of  boiling  tea  all  about.  The  pink 
and  white  children  ate  their  peach  sauce  in 
happy  silence,  with  their  pretty  eyes  upon 
the  prospective  cake. 

"  I  suppose  there  must  be  some  bed  made 
up  in  all  that  big  house,"  remarked  their 
mother;  "but  it  must  be  awful  lonesome." 

Of  the  awful  lonesomeness  of  it  truly,  this 
smiling,  comfortable  young  soul  had  no 
conception.  At  that  moment,  while  they 
were  drinking  their  tea  and  talking  her 
over,  Jane  Field  sat  bolt-upright  in  one  of 
the  old  flag-bottomed  chairs  in  the  Maxwell 
sitting-room.  She  had  dropped  into  it  when 
the  lawyer  closed  the  door  after  him,  and 
she  never  stirred  afterward.  She  sat  there 
all  night. 

The  oil  was  low  in  the  lamp  which  the 
lawyer  had  lighted,  and  left  standing  on 
the  table  between  the  windows.  She  could 
see  distinctly  for  a  while  the  stately 
pieces  of  old  furniture  standing  in  their 
places  against  the  walls.  Just  opposite 
where  she  sat  was  one  of  lustreless  old 
mahogany,  extending  the  width  of  the  wall 
between  two  doors,  rearing  itself  upon  slen- 


90  JANE    FIELD 

der  legs,  set  with  multitudinous  drawers, 
and  surmounted  by  a  clock.  A  piece  of 
furniture  for  which  she  knew  no  name,  an 
evidence  of  long-established  wealth  and  old- 
fashioned  luxury,  of  which  she  and  her  plain 
folk,  with  their  secretaries  and  desks  and 
bureaus,  had  known  nothing.  The  clock 
had  stopped  at  three  o'clock.  Mrs.  Field 
thought  to  herself  that  it  might  have  been 
the  hour  on  which  old  Mr.  Maxwell  died, 
reflecting  that  souls  were  more  apt  to  pass 
away  in  the  wane  of  the  night.  She  would 
have  liked  to  wind  the  clock,  and  set  the 
hands  moving  past  that  ghostly  hour,  but 
she  did  not  dare  to  stir.  She  gazed  at  the 
large,  dull  figures  sprawling  over  the  old 
carpet,  at  the  glimmering  satiny  scrolls  on 
the  wall-paper.  On  the  mantel-shelf  stood 
a  branching  gilt  candlestick,  filled  with  col 
ored  candles,  and  strung  around  with  prisms, 
which  glittered  feebly  in  the  low  lamp-light. 
There  was  a  bulging,  sheet-iron  wood  stove 
— the  Maxwells  had  always  eschewed  coal; 
beside  it  lay  a  little  pile  of  sticks,  brought 
in  after  the  chill  of  death  had  come  over 
the  house.  There  were  a  few  old  engrav 
ings — a  head  of  Washington,  the  Landing 


JANE    FIELD  91 

of  the  Pilgrims,  the  Webster  death-bed 
scene,  and  one  full-length  portrait  of  the 
old  statesman,  standing  majestically,  scroll 
in  hand,  in  a  black  frame. 

As  the  oil  burned  low,  the  indistinct  fig 
ures  upon  the  carpet  and  wall-paper  grew 
more  indistinct,  the  brilliant  colors  of  the 
prisms  turned  white,  and  the  fine  black  and 
white  lights  in  the  death-bed  picture  ran 
together. 

Finally  the  lamp  went  out.  Mrs.  Field 
had  spied  matches  over  on  the  shelf,  but  she 
did  not  dare  to  rise  to  cross  the  room  to  get 
them  and  find  another  lamp.  She  did  not 
dare  to  stir. 

After  her  light  went  out,  there  was  still 
a  pale  glimmer  upon  the  opposite  wall,  and 
the  white  face  of  the  silent  clock  showed 
out  above  the  cumbersome  shadow  of  the 
great  mahogany  piece.  The  glimmer  came 
from  a  neighbor's  lamp  shining  through  a 
gap  in  the  trees.  Soon  that  also  went  out, 
and  the  old  woman  sat  there  in  total  dark 
ness. 

She  folded  her  hands  primly,  and  held  up 
her  bonneted  head  in  the  darkness,  like 
some  decorous  and  formal  caller  who  might 


92 


JANE    FIELD 


expect  at  any  moment  to  hear  the  soft, 
heavy  step  of  the  host  upon  the  creaking 
stair  and  his  voice  in  the  room.  She  sat 
there  so  all  night. 

Gradually  this  steady-headed,  unimag 
inative  old  woman  became  possessed  by  a 
legion  of  morbid  fancies,  which  played  like 
wild  fire  over  the  terrible  main  fact  of  the 
case — the  fact  that  underlay  everything — 
that  she  had  sinned,  that  she  had  gone  over 
from  good  to  evil,  and  given  up  her  soul 
for  a  handful  of  gold.  Many  a  time  in  the 
night,  voices  which  her  straining  fancy 
threw  out,  after  the  manner  of  ventrilo 
quism,  from  her  own  brain,  seemed  actually 
to  vibrate  through  the  house,  footsteps  pat 
tered,  and  garments  rustled.  Often  the 
phantom  noises  would  swell  to  a  very  pan 
demonium  surging  upon  her  ears;  but  she 
sat  there  rigid  and  resolute  in  the  midst 
of  it,  her  pale  old  face  sharpening  out  into 
the  darkness.  She  sat  there,  and  never 
stirred  until  morning  broke. 

When  it  was  fairly  light,  she  got  up,  took 
off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  found  her  way 
into  the  kitchen.  She  washed  her  face  and 
hands  at  the  sink,  and  went  deliberately  to 


JANE    FIELD  93 

work  getting  herself  some  breakfast.  She 
had  a  little  of  her  yesterday's  lunch  left; 
she  kindled  a  fire,  and  made  a  cup  of  tea. 
She  found  some  in  a  caddy  in  the  pantry. 
She  set  out  her  meal  on  the  table  and  drew 
a  chair  before  it.  She  had  wound  up  the 
kitchen  clock,  and  she  listened  to  its  tick 
while  she  ate.  She  took  time,  and  finished 
her  slight  repast  to  the  last  crumb.  Then 
she  washed  the  dishes,  and  swept  and  tidied 
the  kitchen. 

When  that  was  done  it  was  still  too  early 
for  her  to  go  to  the  lawyer's  office.  She 
sat  down  at  an  open  kitchen  window  and 
folded  her  hands.  Outside  was  a  broad, 
green  yard,  inclosed  on  two  sides  by  the 
Maxwell  house  and  barn.  A  drive-way 
led  to  the  barn,  and  on  the  farther  side  a 
row  of  apple-trees  stood.  There  was  a  fresh 
wind  blowing,  and  the  apple  blossoms  were 
floating  about.  The  drive  was  quite  white 
with  them  in  places,  and  they  were  half  im 
paled  upon  the  sharp  green  blades  of  grass. 

Over  through  the  trees  Mrs.  Field  could 
see  the  white  top  of  a  market  wagon  in  a 
neighboring  yard,  and  the  pink  dress  of  a 
woman  who  stood  beside  it  trading.  She 


94  JANE    FIELD 

watched  them  with  a  dull  wonder.  What 
had  she  now  to  do  with  market  wagons  and 
daily  meals  and  housewifely  matters?  That 
fair-haired  woman  in  the  pink  dress  seemed 
to  her  like  a  woman  of  another  planet. 

This  narrow-lived  old  countrywoman 
could  not  consciously  moralize.  She  was 
no  philosopher,  but  she  felt,  without  putting 
it  into  thoughts,  as  if  she  had  descended  far 
below  the  surface  of  all  things,  and  found 
out  that  good  and  evil  were  the  root  and 
the  life  of  them,  and  the  outside  leaves  and 
froth  and  flowers  were  fathoms  away,  and 
no  longer  to  be  considered. 

At  ten  o'clock  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  set  out  for  the  lawyer's  office. 
She  locked  the  front  door,  put  the  key  under 
a  blind,  and  proceeded  down  the  front  walk 
into  the  street. 

The  spring  was  earlier  here  than  in  Green 
River.  She  started  at  a  dancing  net-work 
of  leaf  shadows  on  the  sidewalk.  They 
were  the  first  she  had  seen  that  season. 
There  was  a  dewy  arch  of  trees  overhead, 
and  they  were  quite  fully  leaved  out.  Mr. 
Tuxbury  was  in  his  office  when  she  got 
there.  He  rose  promptly  and  greeted  her, 


JANE    FIELD  95 

and  pushed  forward  the  leather  easy-chair 
with  his  old  courtly  flourish. 

"  I  suppose  that  old  stick  of  a  woman  will 
be  in  pretty  soon,"  he  had  remarked  to  his 
sister  at  breakfast-time. 

"Well,  you'll  keep  on  the  right  side  of 
her,  if  you  know  which  side  your  bread  is 
buttered,"  she  retorted.  "You  don't  want 
her  goin'  to  Sam  Totten's. " 

Totten  was  the  other  lawyer  of  Elliot. 

"I  think  I  am  quite  aware  of  all  the  exi 
gencies  of  the  case,"  Daniel  Tuxbury  had 
replied,  lapsing  into  stateliness,  as  he  al 
ways  did  when  his  sister  waxed  too  forci 
ble  in  her  advice. 

But  when  Mrs.  Field  entered  his  office, 
every  trace  of  his  last  night's  impatience 
had  vanished.  He  inquired  genially  if  she 
had  passed  a  comfortable  night,  and  on  be 
ing  assured  that  she  had,  pressed  her  to 
drink  a  cup  of  coffee  which  he  had  request 
ed  his  sister  to  keep  warm.  This  declined, 
with  her  countrified  courtesy,  so  shy  that  it 
seemed  grim,  he  proceeded,  with  no  chill 
upon  his  graciousness,  to  business. 

Through  the  next  two  hours  Mrs.  Field 
sat  at  the  lawyer's  desk,  and  listened  to  a 


96  JANE    FIELD 

minute  and  wearisome  description  of  her 
new  possessions.  She  listened  with  very 
little  understanding.  She  did  not  feel  any 
interest  in  it.  She  never  opened  her  mouth 
except  now  and  then  for  a  stiff  assent  to 
a  question  from  the  lawyer. 

A  little  after  twelve  o'clock  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  with  a  conclusive  sigh,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  reflectively  upon  the  ceiling. 
"Well,  Mrs.  Maxwell,"  said  he,  "  I  think 
that  you  understand  pretty  well  now  the  ex 
tent  and  the  limitations  of  your  property." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  she. 

"It  is  all  straight  enough.  Maxwell  was 
a  good  business  man;  he  kept  his  affairs  in 
excellent  order.  Yes,  he  was  a  very  good 
business  man." 

Suddenly  the  lawyer  straightened  himself, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  with  genial  interest  upon 
his  visitor;  business  over,  he  had  a  mind 
for  a  little  personal  interview  to  show  his 
good-will.  u  Let  me  see,  Mrs.  Maxwell, 
you  had  a  sister,  did  you  not?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Is  she  living?" 

"No,  sir."  Mrs.  Field  said  it  with  a 
gasping  readiness  to  speak  one  truth. 


JANE    FIELD  97 

"  Let  me  see,  what  was  her  name  ?  "  asked 
the  lawyer,  "No;  wait  a  moment;  I'll  tell 
you.  I've  heard  it."  He  held  up  a  hand 
as  if  warding-  off  an  answer  from  her,  his 
face  became  furrowed  with  reflective  wrin 
kles.  "Field!"  cried  he,  suddenly,  with  a 
jerk,  and  beamed  at  her.  "  I  thought  I 
could  remember  it,"  said  he.  "Yes,  your 
sister's  name  was  Field.  When  did  she 
die,  Mrs.  Maxwell?" 

"  Two  years  ago." 

There  was  a  strange  little  smothered  ex 
clamation  from  some    one    near   the    office 
door.      Mrs.  Field  turned  suddenly,  and  saw 
her  daughter  Lois  standing  there. 
7 


CHAPTER  IV 

THERE  Lois  stood.  Her  small  worn  shoes 
hesitated  on  the  threshold.  She  was  gotten 
up  in  her  poor  little  best — her  dress  of  cheap 
brown  wool  stuff,  with  its  skimpy  velvet 
panel,  her  hat  trimmed  with  a  fold  of  silk 
and  a  little  feather.  She  had  curled  her  hair 
over  her  forehead,  and  tied  on  a  bit  of  a  lace 
veil.  Distinct  among  all  this  forlorn  and 
innocent  furbishing  was  her  face,  with  its 
pitiful,  youthful  prettiness,  turning  toward 
her  mother  and  the  lawyer  with  a  very  clutch 
of  vision. 

Mrs.  Field  got  up.  "Oh,  it's  you,  Lois," 
she  said,  calmly.  "You  thought  you'd 
come  too,  didn't  you?" 

Lois  gasped  out  something. 

Her  mother  turned  to  the  lawyer.  "I'll 
make  you  acquainted  with  Miss  Lois  Field," 
said  she.  "Lois,  I'll  make  you  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Tuxbury." 

The  lawyer  was  looking  surprised,  but 
93 


JANE    FIELD  99 

he  rose  briskly  to  the  level  of-  the  situation, 
and  greeted  the  young  girl  with  ready 
grace.  "Your  sister's  daughter,  I  con 
clude,'1  he  said,  smilingly,  to  Mrs.  Field. 

Mrs.  Field  set  her  mouth  hard.  She 
looked  defiantly  at  him  and  said  not  one 
word.  There  was  a  fierce  resolve  in  her 
heart  that,  come  what  would,  she  would 
not  tell  this  last  lie,  and  deny  her  daughter 
before  her  very  face. 

But  the  lawyer  did  not  know  she  was 
silent.  Not  having  heard  any  response,  with 
the  vanity  of  a  deaf  man,  he  assumed  that 
she  had  given  one,  and  so  concealed  his  un 
certainty. 

"Yes,  so  I  thought,"  said  he,  and  went 
on  flourishingly  in  his  track  of  gracious  re 
ception. 

Lois  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  like  some 
little  timid  animal  which  suspects  an  enemy, 
and  watches  his  eyes  for  the  first  impetus  of 
a  spring.  Once  or  twice  she  said,  "  Yes, 
sir,"  faintly. 

"Your  niece  does  not  look  very  strong," 
Mr.  Tuxbury  said  to  Mrs.  Field. 

"She  ain't  been  feelin'  very  well  this 
spring.  I've  been  considerable  worried 


100  JANE    FIELD 

about  her,"  she  answered,  with  harsh  de 
cision. 

"  Ah,  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that.  Well, 
she  will  soon  recuperate  if  she  stays  here. 
Elliot  is  considered  a  very  healthy  place. 
We  shall  soon  have  her  so  hearty  and  rosy 
that  her  old  friends  won't  be  able  to  recog 
nize  her."  He  bowed  with  a  smiling  flour 
ish  to  Lois. 

Her  lips  trembled  with  a  half-smile  in 
response,  but  she  looked  more  frightened 
than  ever. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Maxwell,"  said  the  lawyer, 
"  you  and  your  niece  must  positively  remain 
and  dine  with  us  to-day,  can't  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  put  your  sister  out." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed."  The  lawyer,  however, 
had  a  slightly  nonplussed  expression.  "  She 
will  be  delighted.  I  will  run  over  to  the 
house,  then,  and  tell  her  that  you  will  stay, 
shall  I  not?" 

"I  hate  to  make  her  extra  work,"  said 
Mrs.  Field.  'That  was  her  rural  form  of  ac 
ceptance. 

"You  will  not,  I  assure  you.  Don't  dis 
tress  yourself  about  that,  Mrs.  Maxwell." 

Nevertheless,  he  was  quite  ill  at  ease  as 


JANF,  'HELP;  J/  V;  '/^  ^  jJ  iof 

he  traversed  the  yard.  In  his  life  with  his 
sister  there  were  exigencies  during  which 
he  was  obliged  to  descend  from  his  platform 
of  superiority.  He  foresaw  the  approach  of 
one  now. 

Dinner  was  already  served  when  he  en 
tered  the  dining-room,  and  his  sister  was 
setting  the  chairs  around  the  table.  They 
kept  no  servant. 

"  They  are  going  to  stay  to  dinner,  I  ex 
pect,"  he  remarked,  in  an  appealingly  con 
fidential  tone. 

His  sister  faced  him  with  a  jerk.  She 
was  very  red  from  bending  over  the  kitchen 
fire.  "Who's  goin'  to  stay?  What  do  you 
mean,  Daniel  ?" 

"Why,  Mrs.  Maxwell  and  her  niece." 

"  Her  niece?  I  didn't  know  she  had  any 
niece.  How  did  she  get  here?" 

"She  came  this  noon;  followed  along 
after  her  aunt,  I  suppose.  I  don't  think  she 
knew  she  was  coming.  She  acted  kind  of 
surprised,  I  thought." 

"You  don't  mean  they're  comin'  in  here 
to  dinner?" 

"I  couldn't  very  well  help  asking  them, 
you  know."  His  tone  was  soft  and  con- 


102  JANS-  FIELD 

ciliatory,  and  he  kept  a  nervous  eye  upon 
his  sister's  face. 

"  Couldn't  help  askin'  'em!  I  ruther  guess 
I  could  'a'  helped  askin'  'em!  " 

"Jane,  I  hadn't  any  idea  they'd  stay." 

"Well,  you've  gone  an'  done  it,  that's  all 
I've  got  to  say.  Here  they  didn't  come  last 
night,  when  I  got  all  ready  for  'em,  an'  now 
they're  comin',  an'  everything  we've  got  is 
a  picked-up  dinner;  there  ain't  enough  of 
anything  to  go  round.  Flora!  " 

Her  daughter  Flora  came  in  from  the 
kitchen,  with  the  children,  in  blue  gingham 
aprons,  at  her  heels. 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  said  she. 

"Nothin',  only  your  uncle  Daniel  has 
asked  that  Maxwell  woman  an'  her  niece  to 
dinner,  an'  they're  goin'  to  stay." 

"  My  goodness!  there  isn't  a  thing  for  din 
ner!"  said  Flora,  with  a  half-giggle.  She 
was  so  young  and  healthy  and  happy  that 
she  could  still  see  the  joke  in  an  annoy 
ance. 

Her  uncle  looked  at  her  beseechingly. 
"Can't  you  manage  somehow?"  said  he. 
"I'll  go  down  to  the  store  and  buy  some 
thing." 


JANE    FIELD  103 

"  Down  to  the  store!  "  repeated  his  sister, 
contemptuously.  "It's  one  o'clock  now." 

He  looked  at  the  kitchen  clock,  visible 
through  the  open  door,  and  saw  that  it  in 
dicated  half-past  twelve,  but  he  said  nothing. 

Flora  was  frowning  reflectively,  while 
her  cheeks  dimpled.  "I  tell  you  what  I'll 
do,  mother,"  said  she.  "I'll  go  over  to 
Mrs.  Bennett's  and  borrow  a  pie.  I  think 
we  can  get  along  if  we  have  a  pie." 

"I  ain't  goin'  round  the  neighborhood 
borrowin' ;  that  ain't  the  way  I'm  accus 
tomed  to  doin'." 

"Land,  mother!  I'd  just  as  soon  ask 
Mrs.  Bennett  as  not.  She  borrowed  that 
bread  in  here  the  other  night." 

"There  ain't  enough  steak  to  go  round; 
there's  jest  that  little  piece  we  had  left 
from  yesterday,  an'  there  ain't  enough  stew," 
said  her  mother,  with  persistent  wrath. 

"Well,  if  folks  come  in  unexpectedly, 
they'll  have  to  take  what  we've  got  and 
make  the  best  of  it."  Flora  tied  a  hat  on 
over  her  light  hair  as  she  spoke.  "I  don't 
see  any  other  way  for  them,"  she  added, 
laughingly,  going  out  of  the  door. 

"It's  all  very  well   for  folks  to  be  easy," 


IO4  JANE    FIELD 

said  her  mother,  with  a  sniff,  "  but  when  she's 
had  as  much  as  I've  had,  I  guess  she  won't 
take  it  any  easier  than  I  do.  I  s'pose  now 
I've  got  to  take  all  these  things  off,  an'  put 
on  a  clean  table-cloth." 

"That  one  doesn't  look  very  bad,"  ven 
tured  her  brother,  timidly. 

"No,  I  shouldn't  think  it  did!  Look  at 
that  great  coffee  stain  you  got  on  it  this 
mornin' !  Havin'  a  couple  of  perfect  stran 
gers  come  in  to  dinner  makes  more  work 
than  a  man  knows  anything  about.  Chil 
dren,  you  take  off  the  knives,  an'  pile  'em 
up  on  the  other  table.  Be  real  careful." 

"  I  wonder  if  the  parlor's  so  I  can  ask 
them  in  there?"  Mr.  Tuxbury  remarked, 
edging  toward  the  door. 

"I  s'pose  so.  I  ain't  been  in  there  this 
mornin';  I  s'pose  it's  all  right  unless  the 
children  have  been  in  an'  cluttered  it  up." 

"No,  we  ain't,  gramma,  we  ain't,"  pro 
claimed  the  children  in  a  shrill  shout. 
They  danced  around  the  table,  removing 
the  knives  and  forks;  their  innocent,  pinky 
faces  were  full  of  cherubic  glee.  This  oc 
casion  was,  metaphorically  speaking,  a 
whole  flock  of  jubilant  infantile  larks  for 


JANE    FIELD  105 

them.  They  loved  company  with  all  their 
souls,  and  they  also  felt  always  a  pleasant 
titillation  of  their  youthful  spirits  when 
they  saw  their  grandmother  in  perturbation. 
Unless,  indeed,  they  themselves  were  the 
cause  of  it,  when  it  acquired  a  personal 
force  which  rendered  it  not  so  entertaining. 

Soon,  however,  a  remark  of  their  grand 
mother's  caused  their  buoyant  spirits  to 
realize  that  there  was  a  force  of  gravitation 
for  all  here  below. 

"  I  don't  know  but  you  children  will  have 
to  wait,"  said  she. 

There  was  an  instantaneous  wail  of  dis 
may,  the  pinky  faces  elongated,  the  blue  eyes 
scowled  sulkily.  "  Oh,  gramma,  we  don't 
want  to  wait!  Can't  we  sit  down  with  the 
others?  Say,  gramma,  can't  we?  Can't 
we  sit  down  with  the  others?" 

"  Of  course  you  can  sit  down  with  the 
others.  Don't  make  such  a  racket,  chil 
dren."  That  was  their  mother  coming  in, 
good-natured  and  triumphant,  with  the  pie. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  they  can  or  not," 
said  their  grandmother.  "  I  ain't  put  in  an 
extra  leaf;  this  table-cloth  wa'n't  long 
enough,  an'  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  have  the  big 


106  JANE    FIELD 

table-cloth  to  do  up  for  all  the  Maxwells 
in  creation." 

"  Oh,  there's  room  enough,"  Flora  said, 
easily.  "  I  can  squeeze  them  in  beside  me. 
Put  the  napkins  round,  children,  and  stop 
teasing.  Didn't  I  get  a  beautiful  pie?" 

"What  kind  is  it?" 

"Squash." 

"An'  our  squashes  are  all  gone,  an'  I've 
got  to  buy  one  to  pay  her  back.  I  should 
have  thought  you'd  known  better,  Flora." 

"  It  was  all  the  kind  she  had.  I  couldn't 
help  it.  Squashes  don't  cost  much,  mother. " 

"They  cost  something,  an'  I've  got  all 
them  dried  apples  to  use  up  for  pies." 

"  Have  they  come  in  ?  "  asked  Flora,  with 
happy  unconcern  about  the  cost  of  squashes 
and  the  utilization  of  dried  apples. 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  so.  I  thought  I  heard 
Daniel  taking  'em  in  the  front  door.  I 
s'pose  they're  in  the  parlor." 

"You  ought  to  go  in  a  minute,  hadn't 
you  ? " 

"I  s'pose  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Lowe,  with  a 
sigh  of  fierce  resignation. 

"I'll  finish  setting  the  things  on  the 
table,  and  you  go  in.  Take  off  your  apron. " 


JANE    FIELD  107 

"This  dress  don't  look  fit." 

"Yes,  it  does,  too;  it's  clean.  Run 
along." 

Mrs.  Lowe  smoothed  her  sparse  hair  se 
verely  at  the  kitchen  looking-glass;  then 
she  advanced  upon  the  parlor  with  the  air 
of  a  pacific  grenadier.  The  children  were 
following  slyly  in  her  wake,  but  their 
mother  caught  sight  of  them  and  pulled 
them  back. 

Mr.  Tuxbury  had  been  sitting  in  the  par 
lor  with  his  guests,  trying  his  best  to  enter 
tain  them.  He  had  gotten  out  the  photo 
graph  album  for  Lois,  and  a  book  of  views 
in  the  Holy  Land  for  her  mother.  If  he 
had  felt  in  considerable  haste  to  escape 
from  his  sister's  indignation  and  return  to 
his  visitors,  they  had  been  equally  anxious 
for  him  to  come. 

When  Mrs.  Field  and  her  daughter  were 
left  alone  in  the  office,  their  first  sensation 
was  that  of  actual  terror  of  each  other. 

Mrs.  Field  concealed  hers  well  enough. 
She  sat  up  without  a  tremor  in  her  unbend 
ing  back,  and  looked  out  of  the  office  door, 
which  the  lawyer  had  left  open.  Just  op 
posite  the  door,  out  on  the  sidewalk,  two 


IO8  JANE    FIELD 

men  stood  talking.  She  kept  her  eyes  fas 
tened  upon  them. 

"What  time  did  you  start?"  said  she 
presently,  in  a  harsh  voice,  which  seemed 
to  rudely  shock  the  stillness.  She  did  not 
turn  her  eyes. 

"I — came — on  the  first — train,"  answered 
Lois,  pantingly.  Once  in  a  while  she  stole 
furtive,  wildly  questioning  glances  at  her 
mother,  but  her  mother  never  met  them. 
She  continued  to  look  at  the  talking  men 
on  the  sidewalk. 

"Mother,"  began  Lois  finally,  in  a  des 
perate  voice.  But  just  then  Mr.  Tuxbury 
had  reappeared,  and  conducted  them  to  his 
parlor. 

The  parlor  had  lace  curtains  and  a  Brus 
sels  carpet,  and  looked  ornate  to  Mrs.  Field 
and  Lois.  The  chairs  were  covered  with 
green  plush.  The  two  women  sat  timidly 
on  the  yielding  cushions,  and  gazed  during 
the  pauses  at  the  large  flower  pattern  on  the 
carpet.  All  this  fine  furniture  was,  in  fact, 
Mrs.  Lowe's;  when  she  had  given  up  her 
own  home,  and  come  to  live  with  her 
brother,  she  had  brought  it  with  her. 

Both  of  the  guests  arose  awkwardly,  Mrs. 


JANE    FIELD  IOQ 

Field  first  and  Lois  after  her,  when  Mrs. 
Lowe  entered,  and  the  lawyer  introduced 
them. 

"I'm  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance," 
said  Mrs.  Field. 

"I  believe  I've  seen  you  two  or  three 
times  when  you  was  here  years  ago,"  said 
Mrs.  Lowe,  standing  before  her  straight  and 
tall  in  her  faded  calico  gown,  which  fitted 
her  uncompromisingly  like  a  cuirass.  Mrs. 
Lowe's  gowns,  no  matter  how  thin  and  faded, 
always  fitted  her  in  that  way.  Stretched 
over  her  long  flat-chested  figure,  they  seemed 
to  acquire  the  consistency  of  armor.  "  You 
ain't  changed  any  as  I  can  see,"  she  went 
on,  as  she  got  scarcely  any  response  to  her 
first  remark.  "  I  should  have  known  you 
anywhere.  It's  a  pleasant  day,  ain't  it?" 

"Real  pleasant,"  replied  Mrs.  Field. 
Mrs.  Lowe  sat  down  in  one  of  the  plush 
chairs.  To  seat  herself  for  a  few  minutes 
before  announcing  dinner  was,  she  supposed, 
a  matter  of  etiquette.  She  held  up  her  long 
rasped  chin  with  a  curt  air,  and,  in  spite  of 
herself,  her  voice  also  was  curt.  She  was 
too  thorough  a  New  England  woman  to  play 
with  any  success  softening  lights  over  the 


110  JANE    FIELD 

steel  of  her  character.  She  disdained  to, 
and  she  was  also  unable  to.  She  was  not 
pleased  to  receive  these  unexpected  guests, 
and  she  showed  it. 

As  soon  as  she  thought  it  decently  practi 
cable,  she  gave  a  significant  look  at  her 
brother  and  arose.  "  I  guess  we'll  walk  out 
to  dinner  now,"  said  she,  with  solemn  em 
barrassment.  Mrs.  Lowe  had  nothing  of 
her  brother's  ease  of  manner;  indeed,  she 
entertained  a  covert  scorn  for  it.  "  Daniel 
can  be  dreadful  smooth  an'  fine  when  he  sets 
out,"  she  sometimes  remarked  to  her  daugh 
ter.  The  lawyer's  suave  manner  seemed  to 
her  downrightness  to  border  upon  affecta 
tion.  She,  however,  had  a  certain  respect 
for  it  as  the  probable  outcome  of  his  supe 
rior  education. 

She  marched  ahead  stiffly  now,  and  left 
her  brother  to  his  flourishing  seconding  of 
her  announcement.  Flora  and  the  children 
received  them  beamingly  when  they  entered 
the  dining-room.  Flora  was  quite  sure  that 
she  remembered  Mrs.  Maxwell,  she  was  glad 
to  see  her,  and  she  was  glad  to  see  Lois,  and 
they  would  please  sit  right  "here,"  and 
"here."  She  had  taken  off  the  children's 


I 


"FLORA  AND  THE  CHILDREN  RECEIVED  THEM 
BEAMINGLY  " 


JANE    FIELD  III 

pinafores  and  washed  their  faces,  and  they 
stood  aloof  in  little  starched  and  embroi 
dered  frocks,  with  their  cheeks  pinker  than 
ever. 

Flora  seated  one  on  each  side  of  her,  as 
she  had  said.  "  Now,  you  must  be  good  and 
not  tease,"  she  whispered  admonishingly, 
and  their  blue  eyes  stared  back  at  her  with 
innocent  gravity,  and  they  folded  their 
small  hands  demurely. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  through  them  that 
the  whole  dignity  of  the  meal  was  lost.  If 
they  had  not  been  present,  it  \vould  have 
passed  off  with  a  strong  undercurrent  of 
uneasiness  and  discomfort,  yet  with  com 
posure.  Mr.  Tuxbury  would  have  helped 
the  guests  to  beefsteak,  and  the  rest  of  the 
family  would  have  preferred  the  warmed-up 
veal  stew.  Or  had  the  guests  looked  ap 
provingly  at  the  stew,  the  scanty  portion  of 
beefsteak  would  have  satisfied  the  furthest 
desires  of  the  family.  But  the  perfect  un 
derstanding  among  the  adults  did  not  ex 
tend  to  the  two  little  girls.  They  leaned 
forward,  with  their  red  lips  parted,  and 
watched  their  uncle  anxiously  as  he  carved 
the  beefsteak.  There  was  evidently  not 


112  JANE    FIELD 

much  of  it,  and  their  anxiety  grew.  When 
it  was  separated  into  three  portions,  two  of 
which  were  dispensed  to  the  guests,  and 
the  other,  having  been  declined  by  their 
grandmother  and  mother,  was  appropria 
ted  by  their  uncle,  anxiety  lapsed  into  cer 
tainty. 

"  I  want  some  beefsteak!"  wailed  each, 
in  wofully  injured  tones. 

Mr.  Tuxbury  set  his  mouth  hard,  and 
pushed  his  plate  with  a  jerk  toward  his 
niece.  Her  face  was  very  red,  but  she  took 
it — she  was  aware  there  was  no  other  course 
open — divided  the  meat  impartially,  and 
gave  each  child  a  piece  with  a  surreptitious 
thump. 

Mr.  Tuxbury,  with  a  moodily  knitted 
forehead  and  a  smiling  mouth,  asked  the 
guests  miserably  if  they  would  have  some 
veal  stew.  It  was  perfectly  evident  that  if 
they  accepted,  there  would  be  nothing  what 
ever  left  for  the  family  to  eat.  They  de 
clined  in  terrified  haste;  indeed,  both  Lois 
and  her  mother  had  been  impelled  to  pass 
their  portions  of  beefsteak  over  to  the  chil 
dren,  but  they  had  not  dared. 

The  children  wished  for  veal  stew  also, 


JANE    FIELD  113 

and  when  they  had  eaten  their  meagre 
spoonfuls,  clamored  persistently  for  more. 

"There  isn't  any  more,"  whispered  their 
mother,  with  two  little  vigorous  side-shakes. 
"If  you  don't  keep  still,  I  shall  take  you 
away  from  the  table.  Ain  't  you  ashamed  ?  " 

Then  the  little  girls  pouted  and  sniffed, 
but  warily,  lest  the  threat  be  carried  into 
effect. 

The  rest  of  the  family  tried  to  ignore  the 
embarrassing  situation  and  converse  easily 
with  the  guests,  but  it  was  a  difficult  under 
taking. 

Lois  bent  miserably  over  her  plate,  and 
every  question  appeared  to  shock  her  pain 
fully.  She  seemed  an  obstinately  bashful 
young  girl,  to  whom  it  was  useless  to  talk. 
Mrs.  Field  replied  at  length  to  all  interro 
gations  with  a  certain  quiet  hardness,  which 
had  come  into  her  manner  since  her  daugh 
ter's  arrival,  but  she  never  started  upon  a 
subject  of  her  own  accord.  * 

It  was  a  relief  to  every  one  when  the 
meagre  dinner  lapsed  into  the  borrowed 
pie.  Mrs.  Lowe  cut  it  carefully  into  the 
regulation  six  pieces,  while  the  children  as 
carefully  counted  the  people  and  watched 


114  JANE    FIELD 

the  distribution.  The  result  was  not  satis 
factory.  The  older  little  girl,  whose  sense 
of  injury  was  well  developed,  set  up  a 
shrill  demand. 

"  I  want  a  piece  of  Mis'  Bennett's  pie," 
said  she.  "  Mother,  I  want  a  piece  of  Mis' 
Bennett's  pie!  " 

The  younger,  viewing  the  one  piece  of 
pie  remaining  in  the  plate  and  her  clamor- 
oussister,  raised  her  own  jealous  little  pipe. 
"I  want  a  piece  of  Mis'  Bennett's  pie,"  she 
proclaimed,  pulling  her  mother's  sleeve. 
"  Mother,  can't  I  have  a  piece  of  Mis'  Ben 
nett's  pie  ? " 

Flora's  face  was  very  red,  and  her  mouth 
was  twitching.  She  hastily  pushed  her  own 
pie  to  the  elder  child,  and  gave  the  last 
piece  on  the  plate  to  the  younger.  Their 
grandmother  frowned  on  them  like  a  rock, 
but  they  ate  their  pie  unconcernedly. 

"I  think  Mis'  Bennett's  pie  is  a  good 
deal  better  than  grandma's,"  said  the 
younger  little  girl,  smacking  her  lips  con 
templatively;  and  Flora  gave  a  half- 
chuckle,  while  her  mother's  severity  of  mien 
so  deepened  that  she  seemed  to  cast  an  act 
ual  shadow. 


JANE    FIELD  11$ 

"Now,  Flora,  I  tell  you  what  'tis,"  said 
she,  when  the  meal  was  at  last  over  and  the 
guests  were  gone — they  took  their  leave  very 
soon  afterward — "  if  you  don't  punish  them 
children,  I  shall." 

There  was  a  wail  of  terror  from  the  little 
girls.  "  Oh,  mother,  you  do  it,  you  do  it!  " 
cried  they. 

Flora  giggled  audibly. 

"You'll  just  spoil  them  children,"  said 
her  mother,  severely;  "you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself,  Flora." 

Flora  tried  to  draw  her  face  into  gravity. 
"Go  right  upstairs,  children,"  said  she. 
"It's  so  funny,  I  can't  help  it,"  she  whis 
pered,  with  another  furtive  giggle. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  very  funny  in  chil 
dren's  actin'  the  way  they  have  all  dinner 
time." 

The  children  thumped  merrily  over  the 
stairs.  It  was  clear  that  they  stood  in  no 
great  fear  of  their  mother's  chastisement. 
They  knew  by  experience  that  her  hand  was 
very  soft,  and  the  force  of  its  fall  tempered 
by  mirth  and  tender  considerateness;  their 
grandmother's  fleshless  and  muscular  old 
palm  was  another  matter. 


Il6  JANE    FIELD 

Soon  after  Flora  followed  them  there  was 
a  series  of  arduous  cries,  apparently  main 
tained  more  from  a  childish  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things  than  from  any  actual  stress 
of  pain.  They  soon  ceased. 

"  She  ain't  half  whipped  'em, "  Mrs.  Lowe, 
who  was  listening  downstairs,  said  to  herself. 

The  lawyer  was  in  his  office;  he  had  in 
trenched  himself  there  as  soon  as  possible, 
covering  his  retreat  with  the  departure  of 
his  guests. 

Mrs.  Field  and  Lois,  removed  from  it  all 
the  distance  of  tragedy  from  comedy,  were 
walking  up  the  street  to  the  Maxwell  house. 
Mrs.  Field  stalked  ahead  with  her  resolute 
stiffness;  Lois  followed  after  her,  keeping 
always  several  paces  behind.  No  matter 
how  often  Mrs.  Field,  sternly  conscious 
of  it,  slackened  her  own  pace,  Lois  never 
gained  upon  her. 

When  they  reached  the  gate  at  the  en 
trance  of  the  Maxwell  grounds,  and  Mrs. 
Field  stopped,  Lois  spoke  up. 

"What  place  is  this?"  said  she,  in  a  de 
fiantly  timorous  voice. 

"  The  Maxwell  house,"  replied  her  mother, 
shortly,  turning  up  the  walk. 


JANE    FIELD  Ii; 

"Are  you  going  in  here?" 

"  Of  course  I  am." 

"Well,  I  ain't  going  in  one  step." 

Mrs.  Field  turned  and  faced  her.  "  Lois, " 
said  she,  "  if  you  want  to  'go  away  an'  desert 
the  mother  that's  showin'  herself  willin'  to 
die  for  you,  you  can." 

Lois  said  not  another  word.  She  turned 
in  at  the  gate,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
mother's  face. 

"  I'll  tell  you  about  it  when  we  get  up  to 
the  house,"  said  her  mother,  with  appealing 
conciliation. 

Lois  slunk  mutely  behind  her  again.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  the  impulse  of  flight  when 
she  watched  her  mother  unlock  the  house 
door,  but  she  followed  her  in. 

Her  mother  led  the  way  into  the  sitting- 
room.  "Sit  down,"  said  she. 

And  Lois  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair. 
She  never  took  her  eyes  off  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Field  took  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 
She  folded  the  shawl  carefully  in  the 
creases,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  She  pulled 
up  a  curtain.  Then  she  turned,  and  con 
fronted  steadily  her  daughter's  eyes.  The 
whole  house  to  her  was  full  of  the  clamor  of 


Il8  JANE    FIELD 

their  questioning.  "Now,  Lois,"  said  Mrs. 
Field,  "  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  about  this.  I 
s'pose  you  think  it's  funny." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think  of  it,"  said 
Lois,  in  a  dry  voice. 

"  I  don't  s'pose  you  do.  Well,  I'm  goin' 
to  tell  you.  You  know,  I  s'pose,  that  Mr. 
Tuxbury  took  me  for  your  aunt  Esther. 
You  heard  him  call  me  Mis'  Maxwell  ? " 

Lois  nodded;  her  dilated  eyes  never 
wavered  from  her  mother's  face. 

"  I  s'pose  you  heard  what  he  was  sayin' 
to  me  when  you  come  in.  Lois,  I  didn't 
tell  him  I  was  your  aunt  Esther.  The  min 
ute  I  come  in,  he  took  me  for  her,  an'  Mis' 
Henry  Maxwell  come  into  his  office,  an' 
she  did,  and  so  did  Mr.  Tuxbury's  sister. 
I  wa'n't  goin'  to  tell  them  I  wa'n't  her." 

The  impulse  of  flight  in  Lois'  watchful 
eyes  became  so  strong  that  it  seemed  almost 
to  communicate  to  her  muscles.  With  her 
face  still  turned  toward  her  mother,  she 
appeared  to  be  fleeing  from  her. 

Mrs.  Field  stood  her  ground  stanchly. 
"  No,  I  wa'n't,"  she  went  on.  "An'  I'll 
tell  you  why.  I'm  goin'  to  have  that  fifteen 
hundred  dollars  of  your  poor  father's  earn- 


JANE    FIELD  Up 

in's  that  I  lent  your  uncle  out  of  this  / 
property,  an'  this  is  all  the  way  to  do  it,  an'  ; 
I'm  goin'  to  do  it." 

"I  thought,"  gasped  Lois — "I  thought 
maybe  it  belonged  to  us  anyway  if  Aunt 
Esther  was  dead." 

"It  didn't.  The  money  was  all  left  to 
old  Mr.  Maxwell's  niece  in  case  Esther  died 
first." 

"Couldn't  you  have  asked  the  lawyer 
about  the  fifteen  hundred  dollars  ?  Wouldn't 
he  have  given  you  some?  O  mother!  " 

"  I  was  goin'  to  if  he  hadn't  took  me  for 
her,  but  it  wouldn't  have  done  any  good. 
They  wouldn't  have  been  obliged  to  pay  it, 
an'  folks  ain't  fond  of  payin'  over  money 
when  they  ain't  obliged  to.  I'd  been  a  fool 
to  have  asked  him  after  he  took  me  for 
her." 

"Then — you'd  got  this — all  planned?" 

Her  mother  took  her  up  sharply. 

"No,  I  hadn't  got  it  all  planned,"  said 
she.  "I  don't  deny  it  come  into  my  head. 
I  knew  how  much  folks  said  I  looked  like 
Esther,  but  I  didn't  go  so  far  as  to  plan  it; 
there  needn't  anybody  say  I  did." 

"You  ain't  going  to  take  the  money?" 


120  JANE    FIELD 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  that  fifteen  hundred 
dollars  out  of  it." 

"Mother,  you  ain't  going  to  stay  here, 
and  make  folks  think  you're  Aunt  Esther?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

Then  all  Lois'  horror  and  terror  manifest 
ed  themselves  in  one  cry — "  O  mother!  " 

Mrs.  Field  never  flinched.  "If  you  want 
to  act  so  an'  feel  so  about  it,  you  can, "said 
she.  "  Your  mother  is  some  older  than  you, 
an'  she  knows  what  is  right  jest  about  as 
well  as  you  can  tell  her.  I've  thought  it 
all  over.  That  fifteen  hundred  dollars  was 
money  your  poor  father  worked  hard  to  earn. 
I  lent  it  to  your  uncle  Edward,  an'  he  lost 
it.  I  never  see  a  dollar  of  it  afterward. 
He  never  paid  me  a  cent  of  interest  money. 
It  ain't  anything  more'n  fair  that  I  should 
be  paid  for  it  out  of  his  father's  property. 
If  poor  Esther  had  lived,  the  money'd  gone 
to  her,  an'  she'd  paid  me  fast  enough.  Now 
the  way's  opened  for  me  to  get  it,  I  ain't 
goin'  to  let  it  go.  Talk  about  it's  bein' 
right,  if  it  ain't  right  to  stoop  down  an' 
pick  up  anybody's  just  dues,  I  don't  know 
what  right  is,  for  my  part." 

"Mother!" 


JANE    FIELD  121 

"What  say?" 

"You  ain't  going  to  live  here  in  this 
house,  and  not  go  back  to  Green  River?" 

"  I  don't  see  any  need  of  goin'  back  to 
Green  River.  This  is  a  'nough  sight  pret 
tier  place  than  Green  River.  Now  you're 
down  here,  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  layin' 
out  money  to  go  back  at  all.  Mandy'll 
send  our  things  down." 

"You  don't  mean  to  stay  right  along 
here  in  this  house,  and  not  go  back  to 
Green  River  at  all?" 

"I  don't  see  why  it  ain't  jest  as  well. 
You'd  better  take  off  your  things  an'  lay 
down  a  little  while  on  that  sofa  there,  an' 
get  rested." 

Lois  seldom  cried,  but  she  burst  out  now 
in  a  piteous  wail.  "O  mother,"  sobbed 

she,  u  what  does  it  mean?  I  can't What 

does  it  mean?  Oh,  I'm  so  frightened! 
Mother,  you  frighten  me  so!  What  does  it 
mean  ? " 

Her  mother  went  up  to  her,  and  stood 
close  at  her  side.  "Lois, "said  she,  with 
trembling  solemnity,  "can't  you  trust 
mother? " 

"O    mother,    I    don't    know!       I    don't 


122  JANE    FIELD 

know!  You  frighten  me  dreadfully. "  Lois 
shrank  away  from  her  mother  as  she  wept. 

Mrs.  Field  stood  over  her,  but  she  did 
not  offer  to  touch  her.  Indeed,  this  New 
England  mother  and  daughter  rarely  or 
never  caressed  each  other.  "  Lois,  dear 
child,  mother  don't  want  you  to  feel  so. 
Oh,  you  dear  child,  you  dear  child,  you  don't 
know  what  mother's  goin'  through.  But  it 
ain't  anything  to  you.  Lois,  you  remember 
that;  it  ain't  anything  you've  done.  It's 
all  my  doin's.  I'm  jest  goin'  to  get  that 
money  back.  An'  it's  right  I  should. 
Don't  you  worry  nothin'  about  it.  Now 
take  your  hat  off,  an'  let  mother  tuck  you 
up  on  the  sofa." 

Lois,  sobbing  still,  began  pulling  off  her 
hat  mechanically.  Her  mother  got  a  pil 
low,  and  she  lay  down  on  the  sofa,  turning 
her  face  to  the  wall  with  another  outburst 
of  tears.  Her  mother  spread  her  black 
shawl  carefully  over  her. 

"Now  you  lay  here  still,  an'  get  rested," 
said  she.  "I'm  goin'  out  in  the  kitchen, 
an'  see  if  I  can't  start  up  a  fire  an'  get 
something  for  supper." 

Mrs.  Field  went  out  of  the  room.      Soon 


JANE    FIELD  123 

her  tall  black  figure  sped  stealthily  past  the 
windows  out  of  the  yard.  She  found  a 
grocery  store,  and  purchased  some  small 
necessaries.  There  were  groceries  already 
in  the  pantry  at  the  Maxwell  house.  She 
had  spied  them,  but  would  not  touch  a  sin 
gle  article.  She  bought  some  tea,  and  when 
she  returned,  replaced  the  drawing  she  had 
taken  that  morning  from  the  Maxwell  caddy, 

The  old  woman's  will,  always  vigorous, 
never  giving  place  to  another  except  through 
its  own  choice,  now  whipped  by  this  great 
stress  into  a  fierce  impetus,  carried  her 
daughter's,  strong  as  it  was  for  a  young 
girl,  before  it.  Lois  lay  quietly  on  the 
sofa.  When  her  mother  called  her,  she  went 
out  in  the  kitchen  and  ate  her  supper. 

They  retired  early.  Lois  lay  on  the  sofa 
until  her  mother  came  in  and  stood  over 
her  with  a  lighted  lamp. 

'"I  guess  you'd  better  get  up  and  go  to 
bed  now,  Lois,"  said  she.  "I'm  goin'  my 
self,  if  it  is  early.  I'm  pretty  tired." 

And  Lois  stirred  herself  wearily  and  got 
up. 

There  were  two  adjoining  bedrooms  open 
ing  out  of  the  sitting-room.  Mrs.  Field 


124  JANE    FIELD 

had  prepared  the  beds  that  afternoon.  "  I 
thought  we'd  better  sleep  in  here,"  said 
she,  leading  the  way  to  them. 

Lois  had  the  inner  room.  After  the  lamp 
was  blown  out  and  everything  was  dark,  her 
mother  heard  a  soft  stir  and  the  pat  of  a 
naked  foot  in  there ;  then  she  heard  the  door 
swing  to  with  a  cautious  creak  and  the  bolt 
slide.  She  knew,  with  a  great  pang,  that 
Lois  had  locked  her  door  against  her  mother. 


CHAPTER  V 

ELLIOT  was  only  a  little  way  from  the 
coast,  and  sometimes  seemed  to  be  per 
vaded  by  the  very  spirit  of  the  sea.  The 
air  would  be  full  of  salt  vigor,  the  horizon 
sky  take  on  the  level,  out-reaching  blue  of 
a  water  distance,  and  the  clouds  stand  one 
way  like  white  sails. 

The  next  morning  Lois  sat  on  the  front 
door-step  of  the  Maxwell  house,  between 
the  pillars  of  the  porch.  She  bent  over, 
leaning  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  making 
a  cup  of  her  hands,  in  which  she  rested  her 
little  face.  She  could  smell  the  sea,  and 
also  the  pines  in  the  yard.  There  were 
many  old  pine  trees,  and  their  soft  musical 
roar  sounded  high  overhead.  The  spring 
air  in  Green  River  had  been  full  of  sweet 
moisture  and  earthiness  from  these  steaming 
meadow-lands.  Always  in  Green  River, 
above  the  almond  scent  of  the  flowering 
trees  and  the  live  breath  of  the  new  grass, 
125 


126  JANE    FIELD 

came  that  earthy,  moist  odor,  like  a  re 
minder  of  the  grave.  Here  in  Elliot  one 
smelled  the  spring  above  the  earth. 

The  gate  clicked,  and  a  woman  came  up 
the  curving  path  with  a  kind  of  clumsy  dig 
nity.  She  was  tall  and  narrow-shouldered, 
but  heavy-hipped;  her  black  skirt  flounced 
as  she  walked.  She  stopped  in  front  of 
Lois,  and  looked  at  her  hesitatingly.  Lois 
arose. 

"  Good-mornin',"  said  the  woman.  Her 
voice  was  gentle ;  she  cleared  her  throat  a 
little  after  she  spoke. 

"  Good-morning, "  returned  Lois,  faintly. 

"Is  Mis'  Maxwell  to  home?" 

Lois  stared  at  her. 

"Is  Mis'  Maxwell  to  home?  I  heard 
she'd  come  here  to  live,"  repeated  the  wo 
man,  in  a  deprecating  way.  She  smoothed 
down  the  folds  of  her  over-skirt.  Lois 
started ;  the  color  spread  over  her  face  and 
neck.  "No,  she  isn't  at  home,"  she  said 
sharply. 

"  Do  you  know  when  she  will  be  ?J' 

"No,  I  don't." 

The  woman's  face  also  was  flushed.  She 
turned  about  with  a  little  flirt,  when  sud- 


JANE    FIELD  127 

denly  a  door  slammed  somewhere  in  the 
house.  The  woman  faced  about,  with  a 
look  of  indignant  surprise. 

Lois  said  nothing.  She  opened  the  front 
door  and  went  into  the  house,  straight 
through  to  the  kitchen,  where  her  mother 
was  preparing  breakfast.  "  There's  a  wo 
man  out  there,"  she  said. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know.  She  wants  to  see — Mrs. 
Maxwell." 

Lois  looked  full  at  her  mother;  her  eyes 
were  like  an  angel's  before  evil.  Mrs. 
Field  looked  back  at  her.  Then  she  turned 
toward  the  door. 

Lois  caught  hold  of  her  mother's  dress. 
Mrs.  Field  twitched  it  away  fiercely,  and 
passed  on  into  the  sitting-room.  The  wo 
man  stood  there  waiting.  She  had  followed 
Lois  in. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mis'  Maxwell  ?  "  she 
said. 

"I'm  pretty  well,  thank  you,"  replied 
Mrs.  Field,  looking  at  her  with  stiff  in 
quiry. 

The  woman  had  a  pale,  pretty  face,  and 
stood  with  a  sturdy  set-back  on  her  heels. 


128  JANE    FIELD 

"I  guess  you  don't  know  me,  Mis'  Max 
well,"  said  she,  smiling  deprecatingly. 

Mrs.  Field  tried  to  smile,  but  her  lips 
were  too  stiff.  "I  guess  I — don't,"  she 
faltered. 

The  smile  faded  from  the  woman's  face. 
She  cast  an  anxious  glance  at  her  own  face 
in  the  glass  over  the  mantel-shelf;  she  had 
placed  herself  so  she  could  see  it.  "  I  ain't 
got  quite  so  much  color  as  I  used  to  have," 
she  said,  "but  I  ain't  thought  I'd  changed 
much  other  ways.  Some  days  I  have  more 
color.  I  know  I  ain't  this  mornin'.  I 
ain't  had  very  good  health.  Maybe  that's 
the  reason  you  don't  know  me." 

Mrs.  Field  muttered  a  feeble  assent. 

"I'd  known  you  anywhere,  but  you  didn't 
have  any  color  to  lose  to  make  a  difference. 
You've  always  looked  jest  the  way  you  do 
now  since  I've  known  you.  I  lived  in  this 
house  a  whole  year  with  you  once.  I  come 
here  to  live  after  Mr.  Maxwell's  wife  died. 
My  name  is  Jay." 

Mrs.  Field  stood  staring.  The  woman, 
who  had  been  looking  in  the  glass  while 
she  talked,  gave  her  front  hair  a  little 
shake,  and  turned  toward  her  inquiringly. 


JANE    FIELD  I  29 

"Won't  you  sit  down  in  this  rockin'- 
chair,  Mis'  Jay?"  said  Mrs.  Field. 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  guess  I  won't  set  down, 
I'm  in  a  little  of  a  hurry.  I  jest  wanted  to 
see  you  a  minute." 

Mrs.  Field  waited. 

"You  know  Mr.  Maxwell's  dyin'  so  sud 
den  made  a  good  deal  of  a  change  for  me," 
Mrs.  Jay  continued.  She  took  out  her 
handkerchief  and  wiped  her  eyes  softly; 
then  she  glanced  in  the  glass.  "I'd  had 
my  home  here  a  good  many  years,  an'  it 
seemed  hard  to  lose  it  all  in  a  minute  so. 
There  he  came  home  that  Sunday  noon  an' 
eat  a  hearty  dinner,  an'  before  sunset  he 
had  that  shock,  and  never  spoke  afterward. 
I've  thought  maybe  there  were  things  he 
would  have  said  if  he  could  have  spoke." 

Mrs.  Jay  sighed  heavily;  her  eyes  red 
dened  ;  she  straightened  her  bonnet  absently ; 
her  silvered  fair  hair  was  frizzed  under  it. 

Mrs.  Field  stood  opposite,  her  eyes  down 
cast,  her  face  rigid. 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  Mis'   Max 
well,"  the  other  woman  went  on.     "I  ain't 
obliged  to  go  out  anywheres  to  live;  I've 
got  property;  but   it's  kind  of  lonesome  at 
9 


130  JANE    FIELD 

my  sister's,  where  I'm  livin'.  It's  a  little 
out  of  the  village,  an'  there  ain't  much 
passin'.  I  like  to  be  where  I  can  see 
passin',  an'  get  out  to  meetin'  easy  if  it's 
bad  weather.  I've  been  thinkin' — I  didn't 
know  but  maybe  you'd  like  to  have  me — I 
heard  you  had  some  trouble  with  your 
hands,  an'  your  niece  wa'n't  well — that  I 
might  be  willin'  to  come  an'  stay  three  or 
four  weeks.  I  shouldn't  want  to  promise  to 
stay  very  long." 

"  I  ain't  never  been  in  the  habit  of  keep- 
in'  help,"  returned  Mrs.  Field.  "I've  al 
ways  done  my  own  work." 

The  other  woman's  face  flushed  deeply; 
she  moved  toward  the  door.  "  I  don't 
know  as  anything  was  said  about  keepin' 
help, "  said  she.  "I  ain't  never  considered 
myself  help.  There  ain't  any  need  of  my 
goin'  out  to  live.  I've  got  enough  to  live 
on,  an'  I've  got  good  clothes.  I've  got  a 
black  silk  stiff  enough  to  stand  alone;  cost 
three  dollars  a  yard.  I  paid  seven  dollars 
to  have  it  made  up,  and  the  lace  on  it  cost 
a  dollar  a  yard.  I  ain't  obliged  to  be  at 
anybody's  beck  and  call." 

"I  hope   I   ain't    said    anything  to  hurt 


JANE    FIELD  131 

your  feelin's,"  said  Mrs.  Field,  following 
her  into  the  entry.  "  I've  always  done  my 
own  work,  an' — " 

"We  won't  speak  of  it  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Jay.  "I'll  bid  you  good-mornin',  Mis' 
Maxwell."  Her  voice  shook,  she  held  up 
her  black  skirt,  and  never  looked  around  as 
she  went  down  the  steps. 

Mrs.  Field  returned  to  the  kitchen.  Lois 
sat  beside  the  window,  her  head  leaning 
against  the  sash,  looking  out.  Her  mother 
took  some  biscuits  out  of  the  stove  oven 
and  set  them  on  the  table  with  the  coffee. 
"Breakfast  is  ready,"  said  she. 

She  sat  down  at  the  table.  Lois  never 
stirred. 

"You  needn't  worry,"  said  Mrs.  Field, 
in  a  sarcastic  voice;  "everything  on  this 
table  is  bought  with  your  own  money.  I 
went  out  last  night  and  got  some  flour. 
There's  a  whole  barrelful  in  the  buttery, 
but  I  didn't  touch  it." 

Lois  drew  her  chair  up  to  the  table,  and 
ate  a  biscuit  and  drank  a  cup  of  coffee  with 
out  saying  a  word.  Her  eyes  were  set 
straight  ahead;  all  her  pale  features  seemed 
to  point  out  sharply;  her  whole  face  had 


132  JANE    FIELD  / 

the  look  of  a  wedge  that  could  pierce  fate. 
After  breakfast  she  went  out  of  the  room, 
and  returned  shortly  with  her  hat  on. 

"  Mother,"  said  she. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  You'd  better  know  what  I'm  going  to  do. " 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do?" 

"I'm  goin'  down  to  that  lawyer's  office, 
and — tell  him."  Lois  turned  toward  the 
door. 

"  I  s'pose  you  know  all  you're  goin'  to 
do,"  said  her  mother,  in  a  hard  voice. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  the  truth,"  returned 
Lois,  fiercely. 

"You're  goin'  to  put  your  mother  in 
State's  prison." 

Lois  stopped.  "Mother,  you  can't  make 
me  believe  that." 

"It's  true,  whether  you  believe  it  or  not. 
I  don't  know  anything  about  law,  but  I'm 
sure  enough  of  that." 

Lois  stood  looking  at  her  mother.  "Then 
I'll  put  you  there,"  said  she,  in  a  cruel 
voice.  "That's  where  you  ought  to  go, 
mother." 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  and  shut  the 
door  hard  behind  her;  then  she  kept  on 


FIELD  133 


through  the  house  to  the  front  porch,  and 
sat  down.  She  sat  there  all  the  morning, 
huddled  up  against  a  pillar.  Her  mother 
worked  about  the  house;  Lois  could  hear 
her  now  and  then,  and  every  time  she  shud 
dered.  She  had  a  feeling  that  the  woman 
in  the  house  was  not  her  mother.  Had  she 
been  familiar  with  the  vampire  superstition, 
she  might  have  thought  of  that,  and  had 
a  fancy  that  some  fiend  animated  the  sober, 
rigid  body  of  the  old  New  England  woman 
with  evil  and  abnormal  life. 

At  noon  Lois  went  in  and  ate  some  din 
ner  mechanically  ;  then  she  returned.  Pres 
ently,  as  she  sat  there,  a  bell  began  tolling, 
and  a  funeral  procession  passed  along  the 
road  below.  Lois  watched  it  listlessly  — 
the  black-draped  hearse,  the  slow-marching 
bearers,  the  close-covered  wagons,  and  the 
nodding  horses.  She  could  see  it  plainly 
through  the  thin  spring  branches.  It  was 
quite  a  long  procession;  she  watched  it 
until  it  passed.  The  cemetery  was  only  a 
little  way  below  the  house,  on  the  same 
side  of  the  street.  By  twisting  her  head  a 
little,  she  could  have  seen  the  black  throng 
at  the  gate. 


134  JANE    FIELD 

After  a  while  the  hearse  and  the  carriages 
went  past  on  their  homeward  road  at  a  lively 
pace,  the  gate  clicked,  and  Mrs.  Jane  Max 
well  and  a  young  man  came  up  the  walk. 

Lois  stood  up  shrinkingly  as  they  ap 
proached,  the  door  behind  her  opened,  and 
she  heard  her  mother's  voice. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  said  Mrs.  Field,  with 
rigid  ceremony,  her  mouth  widened  in  a 
smile. 

''Good-afternoon,  Esther,"  returned  Mrs. 
Maxwell.  "I've  been  to  the  funeral,  an'  I 
thought  I'd  jest  run  in  a  minute  on  my  way 
home.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  an'  your  niece 
to  come  over  an'  take  tea  to-morrow. 
Flora,  she'd  come,  but  she  didn't  get  out  to 
the  funeral.  This  is  my  nephew,  Francis 
Arms,  my  sister's  son.  I  s'pose  you  re 
member  him  when  he  was  a  little  boy." 

Mrs.  Field  bowed  primly  to  the  young 
man.  The  old  lady  was'  eying  Lois.  "  I 
s'pose  this  is  your  niece,  Esther?  I  heard 
she'd  come,"  she  said,  with  sharp  gracious- 
ness. 

"This  is  Miss  Lois  Field;  I'll  make  you 
acquainted,  Mis'  Maxwell,"  replied  Mrs. 
Field. 


JANE    FIELD  135 

Mrs.  Maxwell  reached  out  her  hand,  and 
Lois  took  it  trembling;  her  little  girlish 
figure  drooped  before  them  all. 

"She  don't  look  much  like  you,  Esther. 
I  s'pose  she  takes  after  her  mother,"  said 
Mrs.  Maxwell. 

"I  think  she  rather  favors  her  father's 
folks,"  said  Mrs.  Field. 

"I  heard  she  wa'n't  very  well,  but  seems 
to  me  she  looks  pretty  smart." 

"She  ain't  been  well  at  all,"  returned 
Mrs.  Field,  in  a  quick,  resentful  manner. 

"Well,  I  guess  she'll  pick  up  here;  El 
liot's  a  real  healthy  place.  She  must  come 
over  and  see  us  real  often.  This  is  my 
nephew,  Francis  Arms,  Lois.  I  shall  have 
to  get  him  to  beau  you  around  and  show  you 
the  sights." 

Lois  glanced  timidly  up  at  the  young 
man,  and  returned  his  bow  slightly. 

"Won't  you  walk  in?"  said  Mrs.  Field. 

Lois  went  into  the  house  with  the  party; 
the  old  lady  still  held  her  hand  in  herblack- 
mitted  one. 

"  I  want  you  and  my  nephew  to  get  ac 
quainted,"  she  whispered;  "he's  a  real  nice 
young  man.  I'm  goin'  to  have  you  an' 


136  JANE    FIELD 

your  aunt  come  over  an'  take  tea  to 
morrow.'* 

They  all  seated  themselves  in  the  south 
front  room.  Lois  sat  beside  Mrs.  Maxwell 
on  the  high  black  sofa;  her  feet  swung 
clear  from  the  floor.  The  young  man,  who 
was  opposite,  beside  the  chimney,  glanced 
now  and  then  kindly  across  at  her. 

"Francis  didn't  have  to  go  to  the  bank 
this  afternoon,"  said  Mrs.  Maxwell.  "I 
don't  know  as  I  told  you,  Esther,  but  he's 
cashier  in  the  bank;  he's  got  a  real  good 
place.  Francis  ain't  never  had  anything 
but  a  common-school  education,  but  he's 
always  been  real  smart  an'  steady.  Lawyer 
Totten's  son,  that's  been  through  college, 
wanted  the  place,  but  they  gave  it  to  Fran 
cis.  Mr.  Perry,  whose  mother  was  buried 
this  afternoon,  is  president  of  the  bank,  an' 
that's  why  it's  shut  up.  Francis  felt  as  if 
he'd  ought  to  go  to  the  funeral,  an'  I  told 
him  he'd  better  come  in  here  with  me.  I 
suppose  you  remember  Francis  when  he  was 
a  little  boy,  Esther?" 

"No,  I  guess  I  don't." 

"Why,  I  should  think  you'd  be  likely 
to.  He  lived  with  me  when  you  was  here. 


JANE    FIELD  137 

He  came  right  after  his  father  died,  an'  that 
was  before  you  came  here.  He  was  quite  a 
big  boy.  I  should  think  you'd  remember 
him.  You  sure  you  don't,  Esther?" 
•'Yes,  I  guess  I  don't." 
"  Seems  to  me  it's  dreadful  queer;  I  guess 
your  memory  ain't  as  good  as  mine.  I 
s'pose  you're  beginnin'  to  feel  kind  of  wont 
ed  here,  Esther?  It's  a  pretty  big  house, 
but  then  it  ain't  as  if  you  hadn't  been  here 
before.  I  s'pose  it  seems  kind  of  familiar 
to  you,  if  you  ain't  seen  it  for  so  long;  I 
s'pose  it  all  comes  back  to  you,  don't  it?" 

There  was  a  pause.  "No,  I'm  afraid  it 
don't,"  said  Mrs.  Field  her  pale  severe  face 
fronting  the  other  woman.  Although  fairly 
started  forth  in  the  slough  of  deceit,  she 
still  held  up  her  Puritan  skirts  arduously. 

"It's  kind  of  queer  it  don't,  ain't  it?" 
returned  Mrs.  Maxwell.  "The  house  ain't 
been  altered  any,  an'  the  furniture's  jest 
the  same.  Thomas,  he  wouldn't  have  a 
thing  altered;  the  carpet  in  his  bedroom  is 
wore  threadbare,  but  he  wouldn't  get  a  new 
one  nohow.  Mis'  Jay,  she  wanted  him  to 
get  a  new  cookin'-stove,  but  he  wouldn't 
hear  to  it;  much  as  ever  he'd  let  her  have 


138  JANE    FIELD 

a  new  broom.  And  it  wa'n't  because  he 
was  stingy;  it  was  jest  because  he  was  kind 
of  set,  an'  had  got  into  the  way  of  thinkin' 
nothin'  had  ought  to  be  changed.  It  wa'n't 
never  my  way;  I  never  believed  in  hangin' 
on  to  old  shackly  things  because  you've 
always  had  'em.  There  ain't  no  use  tryin' 
to  set  down  tables  an'  chairs  as  solid  as  the 
everlastin'  hills.  There  was  Mis'  Perry, 
she  that  was  buried  this  afternoon,  Mr. 
Perry's  mother,  when  she  came  here  to  live 
after  her  husband  died,  she  sold  off  every 
stick  of  her  old  furniture,  an'  got  the  hand 
somest  marble-top  set  that  money  could  buy 
for  her  room.  She  got  some  pictures  in 
gilt  frames  too,  and  a  tapestry  carpet,  and 
vases  and  images  for  her  mantel-shelf.  She 
said  folks  could  talk  about  associations  all 
they  wanted  to,  she  hadn't  no  associations 
with  a  lot  of  old  worm-eaten  furniture; 
she'd  rather  have  some  that  was  clean  an' 
new.  H'm,  anybody  to  hear  folks  talk 
sometimes  would  think  they  were  blood- 
relations  to  old  secretaries  and  bureaus." 

Mrs.  Maxwell  screwed  her  face  contemp 
tuously,  as  if  the  talking  folk  were  before 
her,  and  there  was  a  pause.  The  young 


JANE    FIELD  139 

man  looked  across  at  Lois,  then  turned  to 
her  mother,  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  his 
aunt  interposed. 

"  Esther,"  said  she,  "  I  jest  wanted  to  ask 
you  if  there  wa'n't  two  of  them  old  swell- 
front  bureaus  in  the  north  chamber  up 
stairs." 

"I  guess  there  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Field. 
She  sat  leaning  forward  toward  her  callers, 
with  her  face  fairly  strained  into  hospitable 
attention. 

"Well,  I  wanted  to  know.  I  ain't  come 
beggin',  an'  I'd  'nough  sight  rather  have  a 
good  clean  new  one,  but  I'm  kind  of  short 
of  bureau  drawers,  an'  I'd  kind  of  like  to 
have  it  because  'twas  Thomas'.  I  wonder 
if  you  wouldn't  jest  as  soon  I'd  have  one  of 
them  bureaus? " 

Mrs.  Field's  face  gleamed  suddenly. 
"You  can  have  it  jest  as  well  as  not,"  said 
she. 

"Well,  there's  another  thing.  I  kind  of 
hate  to  speak  about  it.  Flora  said  I 
shouldn't;  but  I  said  I  would,  whether  or 
no.  I  know  you'd  rather  I  would..  There's 
a  set  of  blue  china  dishes  that  Nancy,  that's 
Thomas'  wife,  you  know,  always  said  Flora 


140  JANE    FIELD 

should  have  when  she  got  done  with  them. 
Thomas,  he  never  said  anything  about  it 
after  Nancy  died.  I  didn't  know  but  he 
might  make  mention  of  it  in  the  will.  But 
we  all  know  how  that  was.  I  ain't  findin' 
no  fault,  an'  I  ain't  begrudgin'  anything." 

"You  can  have  the  dishes  jest  as  well  as 
not,"  returned  Mrs.  Field,  eagerly. 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  as  you'd  value 
them  much.  I  s'posed  you'd  rather  get 
some  new  ones.  You  can  get  real  handsome 
ones  now  for  ten  dollars.  Silsbee's  got  an 
elegant  set  in  his  window.  Of  course  folks 
that  can  afford  them  would  rather  have 
them.  But  I  s'pose  Flora  would  think  con 
siderable  of  that  old  set  because  it  belonged 
to  her  aunt  Nancy.  There's  one  or  two 
other  things  I  was  thinkin'  of,  but  it  don't 
matter  about  those  to-day.  It's  a  beautiful 
day,  ain't  it? " 

"What  be  they?"  asked  Mrs.  Field. 
"  If  there's  anything  you  want,  you're  wel 
come  to  it." 

Mrs.  Maxwell  glanced  at  her  nephew. 
He  was  -looking  out  of  the  window,  with 
his  forehead  knitted  and  his  lips  compressed. 
Lois  had  just  thought  how  cross  he  looked. 


JANE    FIELD  141 

"You  ain't  been  out  to  see  anything  of  the 
town,  have  you,  Lois?"  asked  Mrs.  Max 
well,  sweetly. 

Lois  started.  "No,  ma'am,"  she  said, 
faintly. 

"You  ain't  been  into  the  graveyard,  I 
s'pose?" 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"You'd  ought  to  go  in  there  an'  see  the 
Mason  monument.  Francis,  don't  you  want 
to  go  over  there  with  her  an'  show  her  the 
Mason  monument?" 

Francis  rose  promptly. 

"I  guess  I'd  rather  not,"  Lois  said,  hur 
riedly. 

"Oh,  you  run  right  along!"  cried  Mrs. 
Maxwell.  "You'll  want  to  see  the  flowers 
on  Mis'  Perry's  grave,  too.  I  never  saw 
such  handsome  flowers  as  they  had,  an'  they 
carried  them  all  to  the  grave.  Get  your 
hat,  and  run  right  along,  it'll  do  you  good." 

"You'd  better,"  said  the  young  man, 
smiling  pleasantly  down  at  Lois. 

She  got  up  and  left  the  room,  and  pres 
ently  returned  with  her  hat  on. 

"Don't  sit  down  on  the  damp  ground," 
Mrs.  Field  said  as  the  two  went  out.  And 


142  JANE    FIELD 

her  voice  sounded  more  like  herself  than  it 
had  done  since  she  left  Green  River, 

Lois  walked  gravely  down  the  street  be 
side  Francis  Arms.  She  had  never  had  any 
masculine  attention.  This  was  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  walked  alone  with  a  young 
man.  She  was  full  of  that  shy  conscious 
ness  which  comes  to  a  young  girl  who  has 
had  more  dreams  than  lovers,  but  her  steady, 
sober  face  quite  concealed  it. 

Francis  kept  glancing  down  at  her,  trying 
to  think  of  something  to  say.  She  never 
looked  at  him,  and  kept  her  shabby  little 
shoes  pointed  straight  ahead  on  the  extreme 
inside  of  the  walk,  as  intently  as  if  she  were 
walking  on  a  line.  Nobody  would  have 
dreamed  how  her  heart,  in  spite  of  the  terri 
ble  exigency  in  which  she  was  placed,  was 
panting  insensibly  with  the  sweet  rhythm  of 
youth.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  trouble  and 
bewilderment,  she  had  not  been  able  to  help 
a  strange  feeling  when  she  first  looked  into 
this  young  man's  face.  It  was  as  if  she 
were  suddenly  thrust  off  her  old  familiar 
places,  like  a  young  bird  from  its  nest  into 
space,  and  had  to  use  a  strange  new  motion 
of  her  soul  to  keep  herself  from  falling. 


JANE    FIELD  143 

But  Francis  guessed  nothing  of  this. 
"It's  a  pleasant  day,"  he  remarked  as  they 
walked  along. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  replied. 

The  graveyard  gates  had  been  left  open 
after  the  funeral.  They  entered,  and  passed 
up  the  driveway  along  the  wheel  ruts  of 
the  funeral  procession.  Pink  garlands  of 
flowering-almond  arched  over  the  old  graves, 
and  bushes  of  bridal-wreath  sent  out  white 
spikes.  Weeping-willows  swept  over  them 
in  lines  of  gold-green  light,  and  evergreen 
trees  stood  among  them  as  they  had  stood 
all  winter.  In  many  of  these  were  sunken 
vases  and  bottles  of  spring  flowers,  lilacs 
and  violets. 

Lois  and  Francis  Arms  went  on  to  the 
Mason  monument. 

"  This  is  the  one  Aunt  Jane  was  speaking 
about,"  he  said,  in  a  deferential  tone. 

Lois  looked  up  at  the  four  white  marble 
women  grouped  around  the  central  shaft, 
their  Greek  faces  outlined  against  the  New 
England  sky. 

"  It  was  made  by  a  famous  sculptor,"  said 
Francis;  "and  it  cost  a  great  deal  of 
money." 


144  JANE    FIELD 

Lois  nodded. 

"They  box  it  up  in  the  winter,  so  it  won't 
be  injured  by  the  weather,"  said  Francis. 

Lois  nodded  again.  Presently  they  turned 
away,  and  went  on  to  a  new  grave,  covered 
with  wreaths  and  floral  devices.  The  fra 
grance  of  tuberoses  and  carnations  came  in 
their  faces. 

"  This  is  the  grave  Aunt  Jane  wanted  you 
to  see,"  said  Francis. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Lois. 

They  stood  staring  silently  at  the  long 
mound  covered  with  flowers.  Francis 
turned. 

"  Suppose  we  go  over  this  way,"  said  he. 

Lois  followed  him  as  he  strode  along  the 
little  grassy  paths  between  the  burial  lots. 
On  the  farther  side  of  the  cemetery  the 
ground  sloped  abruptly  to  a  field  of  new 
grass.  Francis  stooped  and  felt  of  the  short 
grass  on  the  bank. 

"  It's  dry,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  think  your 
aunt  would  mind.  Suppose  we  sit  down 
here  and  rest  a  few  minutes?" 

Lois  looked  at  him  hesitatingly. 

"Oh,  sit  down  just  a  few  minutes,"  he 
said,  with  a  pleasant  laugh. 


JANE    FIELD  145 

They  both  seated  themselves  on  the  bank, 
and  looked  down  into  the  field. 

"It's  pleasant  here,  isn't  it?"  said  Fran 
cis. 

"Real  pleasant." 

The  young  man  looked  kindly,  although 
a  little  constrainedly,  down  into  his  com 
panion's  face. 

"  I  hear  you  haven't  been  very  well,"  said 
he.  "  I  hope  you  feel  better  since  you  came 
to  Elliot?" 

"Yes,  thank  you;  I  guess  I  do,"  replied 
Lois. 

Francis  still  looked  at  her.  Her  little 
face  bent,  faintly  rosy,  under  her  hat. 
There  was  a  grave  pitifulness,  like  an  old 
woman's,  about  her  mouth,  but  her  shoul 
ders  looked  very  young  and  slender. 

"Suppose  you  take  off  your  hat,"  said 
he,  "  and  let  the  air  come  on  your  forehead. 
I've  got  mine  off;  it's  more  comfortable. 
You  won't  catch  cold.  It's  warm  as  sum 
mer." 

Lois  took  off  her  hat. 

"That's  better,"  said  Francis,  approv 
ingly.  "You're  going  to  live  right  along 
here  in  Elliot  with  your  aunt,  aren't  you?" 


146  JANE    FIELD 

Lois  looked  up  at  him  suddenly.  She  was 
very  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  terror. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?  What  have 
I  said?"  he  cried  out,  in  bewilderment. 

Lois  bent  over  and  hid  her  face;  her  back 
heaved  with  sobs. 

Francis  stared  at  her.  "  Why,  what  is 
the  matter?"  he  cried  again.  "Have  I 
done  anything?"  He  hesitated.  Then  he 
put  his  hand  on  her  little  moist  curly  head. 
Lois'  hair  was  not  thick,  but  it  curled 
softly.  "Why,  you  poor  little  girl,"  said 
he;  "don't  cry  so;"  and  his  voice  was  full 
of  embarrassed  tenderness. 

Lois  sobbed  harder. 

"Now,  see  here,"  said  Francis.  "I 
haven't  known  you  more  than  an  hour,  and 
I  don't  know  what  the  matter  is,  and  I  don't 
know  but  you'll  think  I'm  officious,  but  I'll 
do  anything  in  the  world  to  help  you,  if 
you'll  only  tell  me." 

Lois  shook  off  his  hand  and  sat  up.  "  It 
isn't  anything,"  said  she,  catching  her 
breath,  and  setting  her  tear-stained  face 
defiantly  ahead. 

"  Don't  you  feel  well  ? " 

Lois  nodded  vaguely,    keeping  her  quiv- 


JANE    FIELD  147 

ering  mouth  firmly  set.  They  were  both 
silent  for  a  moment,  then  Lois  spoke  with 
out  looking  at  him. 

"  Do  you  know  if  there's  any  school  here 
that  I  could  get?"  said  she. 

"  A  school ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  get  a  chance  to  teach. 
I've  been  teaching,  but  I've  lost  my  school." 

"  And  you  want  to  get  one  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.      Do  you  know  of  any  ?  " 

"Why,  see  here,"  said  Francis.  "It's 
none  of  my  business,  but  I  thought  you 
hadn't  been  very  well.  Why  don't  you  take 
a  little  vacation?" 

"I  can't,"  returned  Lois,  in  a  desperate 
tone.  "  I've  got  to  do  something." 

"Why,  won't  your  aunt — "  He  stopped 
short.  The  conviction  that  the  stern  old 
woman  who  had  inherited  the  Maxwell 
property  was  too  hard  and  close  to  support 
her  little  delicate  orphan  niece  seized  upon 
him.  Lois'  next  words  strengthened  it. 

"I  lost  my  school,"  she  went  on,  still 
keeping  her  face  turned  toward  the  mead 
ow  and  speaking  fast.  "Ida  Starr  got  it 
away  from  me.  Her  father  is  school-com 
mittee-man,  and  he  said  he  didn't  think  I 


148  JANE    FIELD 

was  able  to  teach,  just  because  he  brought 
'me  home  in  his  buggy  one  day  when  I  was 
a  little  faint.  I  had  a  note  from  him  that 

morning  mother that  morning  she  came 

down  here.  I  was  just  going  to  school,  and 
I  was  a  good  deal  better,  when  Mr.  Starr's 
boy  brought  it.  He  said  he  thought  it  was 
better  for  me  to  take  a  little  vacation.  I 
knew  what  that  meant.  I  knew  Ida  had 
wanted  the  school  right  along.  I  told 
Amanda  I  was  coming  down  here.  She 
tried  to  stop  me,  but  I  had  money  enough. 
Mr.  Starr  sent  me  what  was  owing  to 
me,  and  I  came.  I  thought  I  might  just 

as  well.  I  thought  mother Amanda  was 

dreadfully  scared,  but  I  told  her  I  was  go 
ing  to  come.  I  can't  go  back  to  Green 
River;  I  haven't  got  money  enough." 
Lois's  voice  broke;  she  hid  her  face  again. 

"  Oh,  don't  feel  so,"  cried  Francis.  "  You 
don't  want  to  go  back  to  Green  River." 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  want  to  get  back.  It's 
awful  here,  awful.  I  never  knew  anything 
so  awful." 

Francis  stared  at  her  pityingly.  "Why, 
you  poor  little  girl,  are  you  as  homesick  as 
that?"  he  said. 


JANE   FIELD  149 

Lois  only  sobbed  in  answer. 

"  Look  here!"  said  Francis — he  leaned 
over  her,  and  his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper — • 
"  it's  none  of  my  business,  but  I  think  you'd 
better  tell  me;  it  won't  go  any  further — 
isn't  your  aunt  good  to  you?  Doesn't  she 
treat  you  well  ?  " 

Lois  shook  her  head  vaguely.  "  I  can't 
go  back  anyway,"  she  moaned.  "  Ida's  got 
my  school.  I  haven't  got  anything  to  do 
there.  Don't  you  think  I  can  get  a  school 
here?" 

"I  am  afraid  you  can't,"  said  Francis. 
"You  see,  the  schools  have  all  begun  now. 
But  you  mustn't  feel  so  bad.  Don't."  He 
touched  her  shoulder  gently.  "Poor  little 
girl !  "  said  he.  "  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to 
speak  so  to  you,  but  you  make  me  so  sorry 
for  you  I  can't  help  it.  Now  you  must 
cheer  up;  you'll  get  along  all  right.  You 
won't  be  homesick  a  bit  after  a  little  while; 
you'll  like  it  here.  There  are  some  nice 
girls  about  your  age.  My  cousin  Flora  will 
come  and  see  you.  She's  older  than  you, 
but  she's  a  real  nice  girl.  She's  feeling 
rather  upset  over  something  now,  too.  Now 
come,  let's  get  up  and  go  and  see  some  more 


150  JANE    FIELD 

of  the  monuments.  You  don't  want  a  school. 
Your  aunt  can  lookout  for  you.  I  should 
laugh  if  she  couldn't.  She's  a  rich  woman, 
and  you're  all  she's  got  in  the  world.  Now 
come,  let's  cheer  up,  and  go  look  at  some 
more  gravestones." 

"I  guess  I'd  rather  go  home,"  said  Lois, 
faintly. 

"Too  tired?  Well,  let's  sit  here  a  little 
while  longer,  then.  You  mustn't  go  home 
with  your  eyes  red,  your  aunt  will  think  I've 
been  scolding  you." 

Francis  looked  down  at  her  with  smiling 
gentleness.  He  was  a  handsome  young  man 
with  a  pale  straight  profile,  his  face  was  very 
steady  and  grave  when  he  was  not  animated, 
and  his  smile  occasioned  a  certain  pleasant 
surprise.  He  was  tall,  and  there  was  a 
boyish  clumsiness  about  his  shoulders  in  his 
gray  coat.  He  reached  out  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  and  took  Lois'  little  thin  hand  in 
his  own  with  a  warm  clasp. 

"Now  cheer  up,"  said  he.  "See  how 
pleasant  it  looks  down  in  the  field." 

They  sat  looking  out  over  the  field;  the 
horizon  sky  stretched  out  infinitely  in 
straight  blue  lines;  one  could  imagine  he 


"  'NOW  CHEER    UP,'    SAID    HE" 


JANE    FIELD  151 

saw  it  melt  into  the  sea  which  lay  beyond; 
the  field  itself,  with  its  smooth  level  of 
young  grass,  was  like  a  waveless  green  sea. 
A  white  road  lay  on  the  left,  and  a  man 
was  walking  on  it  with  a  weary,  halting 
gait;  he  carried  a  tin  dinner-pail,  which 
dipped  and  caught  the  western  sunlight  at 
every  step.  A  cow  lowed,  and  a  pair  of 
white  horns  tossed  over  some  bars  at  the 
right  of  the  field ;  a  boy  crossed  it  with  long, 
loping  strides  and  preliminary  swishes  of  a 
birch  stick.  Then  a  whistle  blew  with  a 
hoarse  musical  note,  and  a  bell  struck  six 
times. 

Lois  freed  her  hand  and  got  up.  "I 
guess  I  must  go,"  said  she.  Her  cheeks 
were  blushing  softly  as  she  put  on  her  hat. 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  sit  here  an  hour 
longer,  but  maybe  your  aunt  will  think  it's 
growing  damp  for  you  to  be  out-of-doors," 
said  Francis,  standing  up. 

As  they  went  between  the  graves,  he 
caught  her  hand  again,  and  led  her  softly 
along.  When  they  reached  the  gate,  he 
dropped  it  with  a  kindly  pressure. 

"  Now  remember,  you  are  going  to  cheer 
up,"  he  said,  "and  you're  going  to  have 


152  JANE    FIELD 

real  nice  times  here  in  Elliot."  When  they 
reached  the  Maxwell  house,  his  aunt  was 
coming  down  the  walk. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are!  "  she  called  out.  "  I 
was  jest  goin'  home.  Well,  what  did  you 
think  of  the  Mason  monument,  Lois?" 

"  It's  real  handsome." 

"Ain't  it  handsome?  An'  wa'n't  the 
flowers  on  Mis'  Perry's  grave  elegant? 
Good-night.  I'm  goin'  to  have  you  an' 
your  aunt  come  over  an'  take  tea  to-mor 
row,  an'  then  you  can  get  acquainted  with 
Flora." 

"  Good-night, "  said  Francis,  smiling,  and 
the  aunt  and  nephew  went  on  down  the  road. 
She  carried  something  bulky  under  her 
shawl,  and  she  walked  with  a  curious  side- 
wise  motion,  keeping  the  side  next  her 
nephew  well  forward. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  carry  your  bun 
dle,  Aunt  Jane?"  Lois  heard  him  say  as 
they  walked  off. 

"No,"  the  old  woman  replied,  hastily 
and  peremptorily.  "It  ain't  anything." 

When  Lois  went  into  the  house,  her 
mother  gave  her  a  curious  look  of  stern  de 
fiance  and  anxiety.  She  saw  that  her  eyes 


JANE    FIELD  153 

were  red,  as  if  she  had  been  crying,  but  she 
said  nothing,  and  went  about  getting  tea. 

After  tea  the  minister  and  his  wife  called. 
Green  River  was  a  conservative  little  New 
England  village;  it  had  always  been  the 
custom  there  when  the  minister  called  to 
invite  him  to  offer  a  prayer.  Mrs.  Field 
felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  now;  if  she  had 
any  reluctance,  she  did  not  yield  to  it. 
Just  before  the  callers  left  she  said,  with 
the  conventional  solemn  drop  of  the  voice, 
"Mr.  Wheeler,  won't  you  offer  a  prayer  be 
fore  you  go  ?  " 

The  minister  was  an  elderly  man  with  a 
dull  benignity  of  manner;  he  had  not  said 
much;  his  wife,  who  was  portly  and  full  of 
gracious  volubility,  had  done  most  of  the 
talking.  Now  she  immediately  sank  down 
upon  her  knees  with  a  wide  flare  of  her  skirts, 
and  her  husband  then  twisted  himself  out  of 
his  chair,  clearing  his  throat  impressively. 
Mrs.  Field  stood  up,  and  got  down  on  her 
stiff  knees  with  an  effort.  Lois  slid  down 
from  the  sofa  and  went  out  of  the  room. 
She  stole  through  her  mother's  into  her  own 
bedroom,  and  locked  herself  in  as  usual, 
then  she  lay  down  on  her  bed.  She  could 


154  JANE    FIELD 

hear  the  low  rumble  of  the  minister's  voice 
for  some  time;  then  it  ceased.  She  heard 
the  chairs  pushed  back;  then  the  minister's 
wife's  voice  in  the  gracious  crescendo  of 
parting;  then  the  closing  of  the  front  door. 
Shortly  afterward  she  heard  a  door  open, 
and  another  voice,  which  she  recognized  as 
Mrs.  Maxwell's.  The  voice^talked  on  and 
on;  once  in  a  while  she  heard  her  mother's 
in  brief  reply.  It  grew  dark ;  presently  she 
heard  heavy  shuffling  steps  on  the  stairs; 
something  knocked  violently  against  the 
wall ;  the  side  door,  which  was  near  her 
room,  was  opened.  Lois  got  up  and  peered 
out  of  the  window;  her  mother  and  Mrs. 
Maxwell  went  slowly  and  painfully  down 
the  driveway,  carrying  a  bureau  between 
them. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MRS.  MAXWELL  had  invited  Mrs.  Field 
and  Lois  to  take  tea  with  her  the  next  after 
noon,  and  had  hinted  there  might  be  other 
company.  "There's  a  good  many  I  should 
like  to  ask,"  she  had  said,  "but  I  ain't  sit 
uated  so  I  can  jest  now,  an'  it's  a  dreadful 
puzzle  to  know  who  to  leave  out  without 
offendin'  them.  I'm  goin'  to  have  the  min 
ister  an'  his  wife  anyhow,  an'  Lawyer  Tux- 
bury  an'  his  sister.  I  should  ask  Flora,  but 
if  she  comes  the  children  have  got  to,  an' 
I  can't  have  them  anyhow;  they're  the 
worst-actin'  young  ones  at  the  table  I  ever 
saw  in  my  life.  There's  two  or  three  men 
I'm  goin'  to  ask.  Now  you  an'  Lois  come 
real  early,  Esther." 

Mrs.  Field's  ideas  of  early,  when  invited 
to  spend  the  afternoon  and  take  tea,  were 
primitive.  Directly  after  the  dinner  dishes 
were  put  away,  about  one  o'clock,  she  spoke 
to  Lois  in  the  harsh,  defiant  tone  she  now 
i55 


156  JANE    FIELD 

used  toward  her.  "You'd  better  go  an' 
get  ready,"  said  she.  "  She  wanted  us  to 
come  early." 

A  stubborn  look  came  into  Lois's  face. 
"I  ain't  going,"  said  she,  in  an  undertone. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I   ain't  going." 

"  Then  you  can  stay  to  home,  if  you  want 
to  get  your  mother  into  trouble  an'  make 
folks  think  we're  guilty  of  somethin'." 

Mrs.  Field  went  into  her  bedroom  to  get 
ready.  Presently  Lois  went  softly  through 
on  her  way  to  her  own.  Jane  Field  stood 
before  her  little  mirror,  brushed  her  gray 
hair  in  smooth  curves  around  her  ears,  and 
pinned  her  black  woollen  dress  with  a  gold- 
rimmed  brooch  containing  her  dead  sister's 
and  her  husband's  hair. 

Lois,  before  her  own  glass,  twisted  up 
her  pretty  hair  carefully;  she  pulled  a  few 
curly  locks  loose  on  her  temples,  thinking 
half  indignantly  and  shamefacedly  how  she 
should  see  that  young  man  again.  Lois  was 
bewildered  and  terrified,  borne  down  by  re 
flected  guilt,  almost  as  if  it  were  her  own. 
She  had  a  wild  dread  of  this  going  out  to 
tea,  meeting  more  strangers,  and  seeing  her 


JANE    FIELD  157 

mother  act  out  a  further  lie;  but  she  could 
not  help  being  a  young  girl,  and  arranging 
those  little  locks  on  her  forehead  for  Fran 
cis  Arms  to  see. 

When  she  and  her  mother  stepped  out  of 
the  door,  a  strong  wind  came  in  their  faces. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Mrs.  Field.  She 
went  back  into  the  house  and  got  Lois's 
sack.  "Put  this  on,"  said  she. 

And  Lois  put  it  on. 

The  wind  was  from  the  east,  and  had  the 
salt  smell  of  the  sea.  All  the  white-flower 
ing  bushes  in  the  yards  and  the  fruit  trees 
bowed  toward  the  west.  There  was  a  storm 
of  white  petals.  Lois,  as  she  and  her  mother 
walked  against  the  wind,  kept  putting  her 
hand  to  her  hair,  to  keep  it  in  place. 

Mrs.  Maxwell's  house  was  a  large  cottage 
with  a  steep  Gothic  roof  jutting  over  a  pi 
azza  on  each  side.  The  house  was  an  old 
one,  and  originally  very  simple  in  its  de 
sign;  but  there  had  been  evidently  at  some 
time  a  flood-tide  of  prosperity  in  the  for 
tunes  of  its  owner,  which  had  left  marks  in 
various  improvements.  There  was  a  large 
ornate  bay-window  in  front,  which  con 
trasted  oddly  with  the  severe  white  peak  of 


158  JANE    FIELD 

wall  above  it;  the  piazzas  had  railings  in 
elaborate  scroll-work;  and  the  windows 
were  set  with  four  large  panes  of  glass,  in 
stead  of  the  original  twelve  small  ones. 
The  front  yard  was  inclosed  by  a  fine  iron 
fence.  But  the  highest  mark  was  shown 
by  a  little  white  marble  statue  in  the  midst 
of  it.  There  was  no  other  in  the  village 
outside  of  the  cemetery.  Mrs.  Jane  Max 
well's  house  was  always  described  to  inquir 
ing  strangers  as  the  one  with  the  statue  in 
front  of  it. 

Lois,  as  they  went  up  the  walk,  looked 
wonderingly  at  this  marble  girl  standing 
straight  and  white  in  the  midst  of  a  votive 
circle  of  box.  The  walk,  too,  was  bordered 
with  box,  and  there  was  a  strange  pungent 
odor  from  it. 

Mrs.  Field  rang  the  door-bell,  and  she 
and  Lois  stood  waiting.  Nobody  came. 

Mrs.  Field  rang  again  and  again.  "I'm 
goin'  round  to  the  other  door,"  she  an 
nounced  finally,  "  Mebbe  they  don't  use 
this  one." 

Lois  followed  her  mother  around  to  the 
other  side  of  the  house  to  the  door  opening 
on  the  south  piazza..  Mrs.  Field  rang  again, 


JANE    FIELD  159 

and  they  waited:  then  she  gave  a  harder 
pull.  A  voice  sounded  unexpectedly  close 
to  them  from  behind  the  blinds  of  a  window: 

"You  jest  walk  right  in,"  said  the  voice, 
which  was  at  once  flurried  and  ceremonious. 
"  Open  the  door  an'  go  right  in,  an'  turn 
to  the  right,  an'  set  down  in  the  parlor. 
I'll  be  in  in  jest  a  minute.  I  ain't  quite 
dressed." 

Lois  and  her  mother  went  in  as  they  were 
directed,  and  sat  down  in  two  of  the  parlor 
chairs.  The  room  looked  very  grand  to 
Mrs.  Field.  She  stared  at  the  red  velvet 
furniture,  the  tapestry  carpet,  and  the  long 
lace  curtains,  and  thought,  with  a  hardening 
heart,  how,  at  all  events,  she  was  not  de 
frauding  this  other  woman  of  a  fine  parlor. 
It  was  to  her  mind  much  more  splendid  than 
the  sitting-room  in  the  other  house,  with  its 
dim  old-fashioned  state,  and  even  than  the 
great  north  parlor,  whose  furniture  and 
paper  had  been  imported  from  England  at 
great  cost  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Mrs.  Maxwell  did  not  appear  for  a  half- 
hour.  Now  and  then  they  heard  a  scurry  of 
feet,  the  rattle  of  dishes,  and  the  closing  of 
a  door.  They  sat  primly  waiting.  They 


l6o  JANE    FIELD 

had  not  removed  their  wraps.  Lois  looked 
very  pale  against  the  red  back  of  her  chair. 

"  Don't  you  feel  well  ?  "  asked  her  mother. 

"Yes,  I  feel  well  enough,"  replied  Lois. 

"You  look  sick  enough,"  said  her  mother 
harshly. 

Lois  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  mar 
ble  girl  in  the  yard,  and  her  mouth  quivered. 

Presently  Mrs.  Maxwell  came,  in  her  soft 
flurry  of  silk  and  old  ribbons.  She  had  on 
a  black  lace  head-dress  trimmed  with  purple 
flowers,  and  she  wore  her  black  kid  gloves. 

"I'm  real  sorry  I  had  to  keep  you  wait- 
in'  so  long,  Esther,"  said  she;  "but  we 
were  kinder  late  about  dinner.  Do  take  off 
your  things.  Flora  she'll  be  down  in  a  few 
minutes;  she's  jest  gone  upstairs  to  change 
her  dress  an'  comb  her  hair.  It's  a  beauti 
ful  day,  ain't  it?  " 

The  three  settled  themselves  in  the  par 
lor.  Lois  sat  beside  the  window,  her  hands 
folded  meekly  in  her  lap;  her  mother  and 
Mrs.  Maxwell  knitted. 

"Don't  you  do  any  fancy-work,  Lois?" 
asked  Mrs.  Maxwell. 

"  No,  she  don't  do  much,"  replied  her 
mother  for  her. 


JANE    FIELD  l6l 

"Don't  she?  I'd  like  to  know!  Now 
Flora,  she  does  considerable.  She's  makin' 
a  real  handsome  tidy  now.  She'll  show  you 
how,  Lois,  if  you'd  like  to  make  one.  It's 
real  easy  an'  it  don't  cost  a  great  deal — but 
then  cost  ain't  much  object  to  you."  Mrs. 
Maxwell  laughed  an  unpleasant  snigger. 
Then  she  resumed:  "Some  tidies  would 
look  real  handsome  on  some  of  them  great 
bare  chairs  over  to  your  house;  there  ain't 
one  there  so  far  as  I  know.  Thomas  he 
wouldn't  never  have  a  new  thing  in  the 
house;  he  was  terrible  set  and  notional 
about  it  and  he  was  terrible  tight  with  his 
money.  I  don't  care  if  I  do  say  it ;  everybody 
knows  it;  an' I  don't  see  why  it's  any  worse 
to  say  things  that's  true  about  the  dead  than 
the  livin'.  With  some  folks  it's  all  'Oh, 
don't  say  nothin' ;  he's  dead.  Cover  it  all 
up;  he's  buried  an'  bury  it  too,  an'  set  all 
the  roses  an'  pinks  a-growin'  over  it.'  I 
tell  you  sometimes  nettles  will  sprout,  an' 
when  they  do,  it  don't  make  it  any  better 
to  call  'em  pinks.  Thomas  Maxwell  was  ter 
rible  tight.  I  ain't  forgot  how  he  talked  be 
cause  we  bought  this  parlor  furniture  and  put 
big  lights  in  the  windows,  an'  had  that  iron 
ii 


162  JANE    FIELD 

fence.  Then  my  poor  husband  had  gone 
into  business  with  your  husband,  an'  they 
seemed  to  be  making  money.  Why  shouldn't 
he  have  bought  a  few  things  we'd  always 
done  without,  I'd  like  to  know?  You  re 
member  what  a  time  the  old  man  made 
when  we  bought  these  things,  Esther,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"I  can't  say  as  I  do,"  returned  Mrs. 
Field. 

"Why,  seems  to  me  it's  funny  you  don't. 
You  sure?" 

Mrs.  Field  nodded. 

"Well,  it's  queer  you  don't.  He  made 
an  awful  time  over  it;  but  the  worst  of  it 
was  over  that  image  out  in  the  yard.  I 
b'lieve  he  always  thought  my  poor  husband 
and  yours  failed  up  because  we  bought  that 
image.  There  was  one  thing  about  it,  your 
husband  wa'n't  never  extravagant,  though, 
was  he?  Thomas  Maxwell  couldn't  say  his 
son  wasted  his  money,  whatever  else  he  said. 
Your  husband  was  always  prudent,  wa'n't 
he,  Esther?" 

"Yes,  I  always  thought  Edward  Maxwell 
was  prudent,"  returned  Mrs.  Field. 

Lois,  staring  soberly  and   miserably  out 


JANE    FIELD  163 

of  the  window,  saw  just  then  a  stout  girlish 
figure,  leant  to  one  side  with  the  weight  of 
a  valise,  pass  hurriedly  out  of  the  yard. 
She  wondered  if  it  was  Flora  Maxwell,  and 
watched  the  pink  flowers  in  her  hat  and  the 
blue  folds  of  her  dress  out  of  sight  down  the 
street. 

"  I  guess  your  husband  took  after  his 
father  a  little;  I  guess  he  was  a  little  sav 
in',"  said  Mrs.  Maxwell.  "I  know  Edward 
looked  kind  of  scared  when  he  came  over 
one  night  an'  saw  that  image  just  after 
we'd  got  it  set  up,  an'  he  asked  how  much 
it  cost.  It  did  cost  considerable.  We  didn't 
ever  tell  anybody  just  how  much;  but  I 
didn't  care;  I'd  always  wanted  one;  an' 
I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  rather  have  that  if  I 
had  to  go  without  some  other  things.  An' 
my  husband  wanted  it  too ;  he  was  one  of  the 
Maxwells,  you  know,  an'  I  think  they  all 
had  a  taste  for  such  things  if  they  wa'n't  too 
tight  to  get  'em.  As  for  me,  I  had  to  do 
without  all  my  young  days,  an'  I  have  to 
now  except  for  the  few  things  we  got  to 
gether  along  then  when  my  poor  husband 
seemed  to  be  prospering;  but  I've  always 
been  crazy  over  images,  an'  I've  always 


164  JANE    FIELD 

thought  one  in  a  front  yard  was  about  the 
most  ornamental  thing  anybody  could  have. 
I've  told  Flora  a  good  many  times  that  I 
believed  if  I'd  had  advantages  when  I  was 
young,  I  should  have  made  images.  Don't 
you  think  that  one's  handsome,  Esther?  " 

"Real  handsome,"  said  Mrs.  Field. 

"  Some  folks  have  found  fault  with  it  be 
cause  it  didn't  have  more  clothes  on,  but  it 
ain't  as  if  it  was  in  a  cemetery.  Of  course 
it  would  have  to  be  dressed  different  if  it 
was.  An'  it  ain't  anything  but  marble, 
when  you  come  right  down  to  it.  I  think 
there's  such  a  thing  as  bein'  too  particular, 
for  my  part,  don't  you?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Mrs.  Field,  looking 
out  at  the  marble  figure. 

"Well,  I  do.  Mis'  Jay  said,  after  my 
husband  died,  that  she  should  think  I'd  like 
to  put  up  that  image  for  a  kind  of  monu 
ment  for  him.  I  didn't  feel  as  if  I  could 
put  up  anything  more  than  stones;  but  I 
did  think  a  little  of  it,  and  I  knew  if  I  did, 
I  should  have  to  have  some  wings  made  on 
it,  and  a  cape  or  a  shawl  over  the  neck  and 
arms;  but  out  here  it's  different.  I  look 
out  at  it  a  good  many  times,  an'  I'm  thank- 


JANE    FIELD  165 

ful  it  ain't  got  any  more  on,  clothes  do  get 
so  out  of  fashion.  You  know  how  they  look 
in  photographs  sometimes.  I  s'pose  that's 
the  reason  that  the  men  who  make  these 
images  don't  put  any  more  on.  There!  I 
must  show  you  my  photograph  album, 
Esther." 

Mrs.  Maxwell  took  a  heavy  album  with 
gilt  clasps  from  the  centre-table,  and  drew 
a  chair  close  to  Mrs.  Field. 

"  Now  you  get  a  chair,  an'  come  on  the 
other  side,  Lois,"  said  she,  "an'  I  can  show 
'em  to  both  of  you." 

Lois  obeyed,  and  Mrs.  Maxwell  turned 
over  the  album  leaves  and  explained  the 
pictures. 

"This  is  a  lady  I  used  to  know,"  said 
she.  "She  lived  in  North  Elliot.  She's 
dead  now.  That's  her  husband;  he's  mar 
ried  again.  His  second  wife's  kind  of  silly. 
Ain't  much  like  the  first  one.  She  was  a 
real  stepper.  That's  Flora  Lowe's  baby — 
the  first  one — -an'  that's  Flora.  I  think  it 
flatters  her.  That's  my  Flora.  It  ain't 
very  good.  She  looks  terrible  sober. 
There's  my  poor  husband.  I  s'pose  you 
remember  him,  Esther  ?  Of  course  you  know 


1 66  JANE    FIELD 

how  he  used  to  look.  Do  you  think  it's  a 
good  likeness?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I  guess  it's  pretty  good, 
ain't  it?"  stammered  Mrs.  Field. 

"Well,  some  think  it  is,  and  some  don't. 
I  ain't  never  liked  it  very  well  myself,  but 
it  was  all  I  had.  It  was  taken  some  years 
before  he  died.  I  guess  jest  about  the  time 
you  was  down  here.  There!  I  s'pose  you 
know  whose  this  is?" 

It  was  her  own  photograph  that  Mrs. 
Field  leant  over  and  saw,  and  Lois  on  the 
other  side  saw  it  also. 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  do,"  she  said. 

"  Was  it  a  pretty  good  one  of  your  sister  ?  " 

There  was  a  strange  gulping  sound  in 
Mrs.  Field's  throat.  She  did  not  answer. 
Mrs.  Maxwell  thought  she  did  not  hear,  and 
repeated  her  question. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  'twas,  very,"  said  Mrs. 
Field  hoarsely. 

"Well,  of  course  I  don't  know.  I  never 
see  her.  You  remember  you  gave  this  to 
me  when  you  was  here.  I  always  thought 
you  must  look  alike,  judging  from  your 
pictures.  I  never  see  pictures  so  much 
alike  in  my  life.  I  don't  know  how  many 


JANE    FIELD  167 

folks  have  thought  they  were  taken  for 
the  same  person,  an'  I've  always  thought 
so  too.  If  anything  your  sister's  picture 
looks  more  like  you  than  your  own  does; 
but  I've  always  told  which  was  which  by 
that  breast-pin  in  your  sister's.  Why, 
you've  got  on  that  breast-pin  now,  ain't 
you,  Esther?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Field. 

"  I  s'pose  your  sister  left  it  to  you. 
Well,  Lois  wouldn't  want  to  wear  it  as  I 
know  of.  It's  rather  old  for  her.  Why, 
Lois,  what's  the  matter?" 

Lois  had  gotten  up  abruptly.  "  I  guess 
I'll  go  over  to  the  window,"  said  she,  in  a 
quick  trembling  voice. 

Mrs.  Maxwell  looked  at  her  sharply. 
"Why,  you're  dreadful  pale.  You  ain't 
faint,  are  you  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Field  turned  over  another  page  of 
the  album.  Her  pale  face  had  a  hard,  in 
different  look.  Mrs.  Maxwell  nudged  her, 
and  nodded  toward  Lois  in  the  window. 

"She  looks  dreadful,"  she  whispered. 

"I  don't  see  as  she  looks  any  worse  than 
she's  been  doin'  right  along,"  said  Mrs. 


1 68  JANE    FIELD 

Field,  without  lowering  her  voice.  "What 
baby  is  this?" 

"It's  Mis' Robinson's;  it's  dead.  Hadn't 
I  better  get  her  something  to  take?  I've 
got  some  currant  wine.  Maybe  a  little  of 
that  would  do  her  good." 

"No,  thank  you;  I  don't  care  for  any," 
Lois  interposed  quickly. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  have  a  little?  You 
look  real  pale." 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  Now  you  needn't  mind  takin'  it,  Lois,  if 
I/you  do  belong  to  any  temperance  society. 
It  wouldn't  go  to  the  head  of  a  baby  kit 
ten." 

"I'm  just  as  much  obliged,  but  I  don't 
care  for  any,"  said  Lois. 

Mrs.  Maxwell  turned  over  a  page  of  the 
album.  "That's  Mis'  Robinson's  sister. 
She's  dead  too.  She  married  a  man  over 
at  Milton,  an'  didn't  live  a  year,"  she  said 
ostentatiously.  "  Hadn't  I  better  get  her  a 
little?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Mebbe  it  would  do  her  good,  if  you've 
got  it  to  spare, "  Mrs.  Field  whispered  back. 

"Here's  the  minister's  little  boy  that 
died,"  said  Mrs.  Maxwell.  "He  wasn't 


JANE    FIELD  169 

sick  but  a  day.  He  ate  milk  an'  cherries. 
I  wonder  where  Flora  is?  She  didn't  have 
a  thing  to  do  but  comb  her  hair  and  change 
her  dress.  I  guess  I'll  go  call  her." 

Mrs.  Maxwell's  face  was  frowning  with 
innocent  purpose,  but  there  was  a  sly  note 
in  her  voice.  She  hurried  out  of  the  room 
and  they  heard  her  call,  "Flora!  Flora!" 
in  the  entry.  Then  they  heard  her  foot 
steps  on  the  cellar  stairs. 

Lois  turned  to  her  mother.  "Mother," 
said  she,  "  I  can't  stand  it — I  can't  stand  it 
anyway  in  the  world." 

Her  mother  turned  over  another  page  of 
the  photograph  album.  She  looked  at  a 
faded  picture  of  a  middle-aged  woman, 
whose  severe  and  melancholy  face  seemed 
to  have  betrayed  all  the  sadness  aka  toil  of 
her  whole  life  to  the  camera.  She  noted 
deliberately  the  old-fashioned  sweep  of  the 
skirt  quite  across  the  little  card,  and  the 
obsolete  sleeves,  then  she  spoke  as  if  she 
were  talking  to  the  picture:  "I'm  a-follow"^" 
in'  out  my  own  law  an'  my  own  right, "said  \ 
she.  "I  ain't  ashamed  of  it.  If  you  want 
to  be  you  can." 

"It's  awful.      Oh,  mother,  don't!" 


1 70  JANE    FIELD 

"A  good  many  things  are  awful,"  said 
her  mother.  "Injustice  is  awful;  if  you 
want  to  set  yourself  up  against  your  mother, 
you  can.  I've  laid  out  this  road  that's  just 
an'  right,  an'  I'm  goin'  on  it;  you  can  do 
jest  as  you're  a-mind  to.  If  you  want  to 
tell  her  when  she  comes  back,  you  can.  I 
ain't  ashamed  of  it,  for  I  know  I'm  doin' 
what  is  just  an'  right." 

Mrs.  Field  noted  how  the  photographed 
woman's  dress  was  trimmed  with  fringe, 
after  the  fashion  of  one  she  had  worn  twenty 
years  ago. 

Lois  looked  across  the  room  at  her  moth 
er's  pale,  stern  face  bending  over  the  album. 
The  garlands  on  Mrs.  Maxwell's  parlor  car 
pet  might  have  been  the  flora  of  a  whole  age, 
she  and  her  mother  seemed  so  far  apart, 
with  that  recession  of  soul  which  can  cover 
more  than  earthly  spaces.  To  the  young 
girl  with  her  scared,  indignant  eyes  the 
older  woman  seemed  actually  living  and 
breathing  under  new  conditions  in  some 
strange  element. 

"  Flora,  Flora,  where  be  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Max 
well  called  out  in  the  entry. 

They   heard   her    climbing   the    chamber 


JANE    FIELD  IJI 

stairs;  but  she  soon  came  into  the  parlor 
with  a  little  glass  of  currant  wine. 

"Here,  you'd  better  drink  this  right 
down,"  she  said  to  Lois;  "it  won't  hurt 
you.  I  don't  see  where  Flora  is,  for  my 
part.  She  ain't  upstairs.  Drink  it  right 
down." 

Lois  drank  the  little  glass  of  wine  with 
out  any  demur.  Her  mother  glanced  sharply 
at  the  album  as  she  took  it. 

"I  can't  imagine  where  Flora  is,"  said 
Mrs.  Maxwell. 

"  I  saw  somebody  go  out  of  the  yard  a 
while  ago,"  said  Lois. 

"You  did?  Was  she  kind  of  stout  with 
light  hair?" 

"Yes,  'm." 

"  It  was  Flora  then.  I  don't  see  where 
she's  gone.  Mebbe  she  went  down  to  the 
store  to  get  some  more  thread  for  her  tidy. 
Now  I  guess  you'll  feel  better." 

"Who's  this  a  picture  of?"  asked  Mrs. 
Field. 

"  Hold  it  up.  Oh,  that's  Mis'  John  Rob- 
bins!  She's  dead.  Yes,  I  guess  Flora  must 
have  gone  after  that  thread.  She'll  show 
you  how  to  make  that  tidy,  Lois,  if  you 


172  JANE    FIELD 

want  to  learn;  it's  real  handsome.  I  guess 
she'll  be  here  before  long." 

But  when  Mrs.  Maxwell  had  shown  her 
guests  all  the  photographs  in  the  album 
and  a  book  of  views  in  Palestine,  and  it  was 
nearly  four  o'clock,  Flora  still  had  not 
come. 

"  Do  you  see  anybody  comin'  ? "  Mrs. 
Maxwell  kept  asking  Lois  at  the  window. 

Before  Mrs,  Maxwell  spoke,  a  nervous 
vibration  seemed  to  seize  upon  her  whole 
body.  She  cleared  her  throat  sharply.  It 
was  like  a  premonitory  click  of  machinery 
before  motion,  and  Lois  waited,  numb  with 
fear,  for  what  she  might  say.  Suppose  she 
should  suddenly  suspect,  and  should  cry  out, 
"  Is  this  woman  here  Esther  Maxwell  ?  " 

But  all  Mrs.  Maxwell's  thoughts  were  on 
her  absent  daughter.  "I  don't  see  where 
she  is,"  said  she.  "  Here  she's  got  to  make 
cream-tartar  biscuits  for  tea,  an'  it's  'most 
time  for  the  folks  to  come." 

"I'm  afraid  we  came  too  early,"  said 
Mrs.  Field. 

"Oh,  no,  you  didn't,"  returned  Mrs.  Max 
well  politely.  "  It  ain't  half  as  pleasant 
goin'  as  late  as  they  do  here  when  they're 


JANE    FIELD  173 

asked  out  to  tea.  You  don't  see  anything 
of  'em;  they  begin  to  eat  jest  as  soon  as 
they  come,  an'  it  seems  as  if  that  was  all 
they  come  for.  The  old-fashioned  way  of 
goin'  right  after  dinner,  an'  takin*  your 
sewin's,  a  good  deal  better,  accordin'  to  my 
way  of  thinkin',  but  they  ain't  done  so  for 
years  here.  Elliot  is  a  pretty  fashionable 
place.  I  s'pose  it  must  be  very  different 
up  in  Green  River,  where  you  come  from?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  'tis,"  said  Mrs.  Field. 

The  front  gate  clicked,  and  Mrs.  Max 
well  peered  cautiously  around  a  lace  cur 
tain.  Two  ladies  in  their  best  black  dresses 
came  up  the  walk,  stepping  with  a  pleasant 
ceremony. 

"There's  Mis'  Isaac  Robbins  an'  Ann 
'Liza  White,"  Mrs.  Maxwell  whispered  agi 
tatedly.  "I  shall  have  to  go  right  out  in 
the  kitchen  an'  make  them  biscuits  the  min 
ute  they  get  here.  I  don't  see  what  Flora 
Maxwell  is  thinkin'  of." 

Mrs.  Maxwell  greeted  her  friends  at  the 
door  with  a  dignified  bustle,  showed  them 
into  her  bedroom  to  lay  aside  their  bonnets; 
then  she  introduced  them  to  Mrs.  Field  and 
Lois  in  the  parlor. 


174  JANE    FIELD 

"  There !  "  said  she ;  "  now  I've  got  to  let 
you  entertain  each  other  a  few  minutes. 
I've  got  something  to  see  to.  Flora  she's 
stepped  out,  an'  I  guess  she's  forgot  how 
late  'tis." 

After  Mrs.  Maxwell  had  left  the  room, 
the  guests  sat  around  with  a  kind  of  sojemn 
primness  as  if  they  were  in  meeting;  they 
seemed  almost  hostile.  The  elder  of  the 
new-comers  took  out  her  knitting,  and  fell 
to  work.  She  was  a  tall,  pale,  severely 
wrinkled  woman,  and  a  ruffled  trimming  on 
her  dress  gave  her  high  shoulders  a  curiously 
girlish  air.  Finally  the  woman  who  had 
come  with  her  asked  pantingly  how  Mrs. 
Field  liked  Elliot,  and  if  she  thought  it 
changed  much.  The  color  flashed  over  her 
little  face,  with  its  softly  scalloping  profile, 
as  she  spoke.  Her  hair  was  crimped  in 
even  waves.  She  wore  nice  white  ruching 
in  her  neck  and  sleeves,  and  flat  satin  folds 
crossed  each  other  exactly  over  her  flat 
chest.  Her  nervous  self-consciousness  did 
not  ruffle  her  fine  order,  and  she  did  not 
smile  as  she  spoke. 

"I  like  it  pretty  well,"  replied  Mrs. 
Field.  "I  dunno  as  I  can  tell  whether 


JANE    FIELD  175 

it's  changed  much  or  not."  She  knitted 
fast. 

"The  meetin'-house  has  been  made  over 
since  you  was  here,"  volunteered  the  elder 
woman.  She  did  not  look  up  from  her  knit 
ting. 

Presently  Lois,  at  the  window,  saw  Mr. 
Tuxbury's  sister,  Mrs.  Lowe,  coming,  and 
the  minister's  wife,  hurrying  with  a  volumi 
nous  swing  of  her  skirts,  in  her  wake.  The 
minister's  wife  had  been  calling,  but  Mrs. 
Lowe,  who  was  a  little  deaf,  had  not  heard 
her,  and  it  was  not  until  she  shut  the  iron 
gate  almost  in  her  face  that  she  saw  her. 
Then  the  two  came  up  the  walk  together. 
Lois  watched  them.  The  coming  of  all 
these  people  was  to  her  like  the  closing  in 
of  a  crowd  of  witnesses,  and  for  her  guilt 
instead  of  her  mother's.  The  minister's 
wife  looked  up  and  nodded  graciously  to  her, 
setting  the  bunch  of  red  and  white  cherries 
on  her  bonnet  trembling.  Lois  inclined  her 
pale  young  face  soberly  in  response. 

"  That  girl  looks  sick,"  said  the  minister's 
wife  to  Mrs.  Lowe. 

There  was  no  more  silence  and  primness 
after  the  minister's  wife  entered.  Her 


176  JANE    FIELD 

florid  face  beamed  on  them  all  with  mas 
terly  smiles.  She  put  the  glasses  fastened 
to  her  high  satin  bosom  with  a  gold  chain 
to  her  eyes,  and  began  sewing  on  a  white 
apron.  "I  meant  to  have  come  before," 
said  she,  "  and  brought  my  sewing  and  had 
a  real  sociable  time,  but  one  thing  after 
another  has  delayed  me;  and  I  don't  know 
when  Mr.  Wheeler  will  get  here;  I  left  him 
with  a  caller.  But  we  have  been  delayed 
very  pleasantly  in  one  respect;"  she  looked 
smilingly  and  significantly  at  Mrs.  Maxwell. 

All  the  other  ladies  stared.  Mrs.  Max 
well,  standing  in  their  midst,  with  a  large 
cambric  apron  over  her  dress,  and  a  powder 
of  flour  on  one  cheek,  looked  wonderingly 
back  at  the  minister's  wife. 

"  I  suppose  you  all  know  what  I  mean  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Wheeler,  still  smiling.  "  I  sup 
pose  Mrs.  Maxwell  has  not  kept  the  glad 
tidings  to  herself."  In  spite  of  her  smiling 
face,  there  was  a  slight  doubt  and  hesitancy 
in  her  manner. 

Mrs.  Maxwell's  old  face  suddenly  paled, 
and  at  the  same  time  grew  alert.  Her  black 
eyes,  on  Mrs.  Wheeler's  face,  were  sharply 
bright. 


JANE    FIELD  177 

"  Mebbe  I  have,  an'  mebbe  I  ain't,"  said 
she,  and  she  smiled  too. 

"Well,"  said  the  minister's  wife,  "I  told 
Flora  that  her  mother  must  be  a  brave  wo 
man  to  invite  company  to  tea  the  afternoon 
her  daughter  was  married,  and  I  thought  we 
all  ought  to  appreciate  it." 

The  other  women  gasped.  Mrs.  Max 
well's  face  was  yellow-white  in  its  frame 
work  of  curls;  there  was  a  curious  noise  in 
her  throat,  like  a  premonitory  click  of  a 
clock  before  striking. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "Flora  'd  had  this  day 
set  for  the  weddin'  for  six  months.  When 
her  uncle  died,  we  talked  a  little  about 
puttin'  of  it  off,  but  she  thought  'twas  a 
bad  sign.  So  it  seemed  best  for  her  to  get 
married  without  any  fuss  at  all  about  it. 
An'  I  thought  if  I  had  a  little  company  to 
tea,  it  would  do  as  well  as  a  weddin'." 

Mrs.  Maxwell's  old  black  eyes  travelled 
slowly  and  unflinchingly  around  the  com 
pany,  resting  on  each  in  turn  as  if  she  had 
with  each  a  bout  of  single  combat.  The 
other  women's  eyes  were  full  of  scared  ques 
tionings  as  they  met  hers. 

"  They  got  off  in  the  three-o'clock  train," 

12 


178  JANE    FIELD 

remarked  the  minister's  wife,  trying  to  speak 
easily. 

"  That  was  the  one  they'd  talked  of,"  said 
Mrs.  Maxwell  calmly.  "Now  I  guess  I 
shall  have  to  leave  you  ladies  to  entertain 
each  other  a  few  minutes." 

When  Mrs.  Maxwell  had  left  the  room, 
the  ladies  stared  at  each  other. 

"Do  you  s'pose  she  didn't  know  about 
it?"  whispered  Mrs.  Lowe. 

"  I  don't  know,"  whispered  the  minister's 
wife.  "  I  was  very  much  afraid  she  didn't 
at  first.  I  began  to  feel  very  nervous.  I 
knew  Mr.  Wheeler  would  have  been  much 
distressed  if  he  had  suspected  anything 
clandestine." 

"  Did  she  have  a  new  dress?"  asked  Mrs. 
Robbins. 

"No,"  replied  the  minister's  wife;  "and 
that  was  one  thing  that  made  me  suspicious. 
She  wore  her  old  blue  one,  but  George  Free 
man  wore  a  nice  new  suit." 

"I  heard,"  said  Mrs.  Lowe,  "that  Flora 
had  all  her  under-clothes  made  before  old 
Mr.  Maxwell  died,  an'  she  hadn't  got  any 
of  her  dresses.  I  had  it  pretty  straight. 
She  told  my  Flora." 


JANE    FIELD  179 

"  I  had  heard  that  the  wedding  was  post 
poned  on  account  of  Mr.  Maxwell's  death, 
and  so  I  was  a  little  surprised  when  Mr. 
Wheeler  came  to  me  and  said  they  were  in 
the  parlor  to  be  married,"  said  the  minis 
ter's  wife;  "but  I  put  on  my  dress  as  quick 
as  I  could,  and  went  in  to  witness  it." 

"How  did  Flora  appear?"  asked  Mrs. 
Lowe. 

"Well,  I  thought  she  looked  rather  sober, 
but  I  don't  know  as  she  looked  any  more  so 
than  girls  usually  do  when  they're  married. 
I  have  seen  them  come  to  the  parsonage 
looking  more  as  if  they  were  going  to  their 
own  funerals  than  their  weddings,  they 
were  so  scared  and  quiet  and  sober.  Now 

Flora "  The  minister's  wife  stopped 

short,  she  heard  Mrs.  Maxwell  coming  and 
she  turned  the  conversation  with  a  jolt  of 
conscience  into  another  channel.  "  Yes,  it 
is  very  dry,"  said  she  effusively;  "we  need 
rain  very  much  indeed." 

The  little  woman  with  the  crimped  hair 
colored  very  painfully. 

Mrs.  Maxwell  made  frequent  errands  into 
the  room,  and  her  daughter's  wedding  had 
to  be  discussed  guardedly.  Always  after 


l8o  JANE    FIELD 

she  went  out,  the  women  looked  at  each 
other  in  an  agony  of  inquiry. 

"Do  you  s'pose  she  knew?"  they  whis 
pered. 

Mrs.  Field  said  nothing;  she  sat  grimly 
quiet,  knitting.  Lois  looked  silently  out 
of  the  window.  Both  of  them  knew  that 
Mrs.  Maxwell  had  not  known  of  her  daugh 
ter's  wedding.  Presently  a  man's  voice 
could  be  heard  out  in  the  kitchen. 

"  It's  Francis,"  said  Mrs.  Lowe.  "  I  won 
der  if  he  knew?" 

Lois  started,  and  blushed  softly,  but  no 
body  noticed  her. 

There  was  a  deep  silence  in  the  parlor ;  the 
women  were  listening  to  the  hum  of  voices 
in  the  kitchen. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  dreadful  close 
here?"  said  Mrs.  Lowe. 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is,"  assented  the  minis* 
ter's  wife. 

"  I  think  it  Would  be  a  good  plan  to  open 
the  door  a  little  ways,"  said  Mrs.  Lowe,  and 
she  opened  it  cautiously. 

Still  they  could  distinguish  nothing  from 
the  hum  of  voices  out  in  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Maxwell  was  in  reality  speaking  low 


JANE    FIELD  I "8 1 

lest  they  should  hear,  although  she  was 
clutching  her  nephew's  arm  hard,  and  the 
veins  in  her  thin  temples  and  her  throat  were 
swelling  purple.  When  he  had  entered  she 
had  sprung  at  him.  "  Did  you  hear  about 
it?  I  want  to  know  if  you  knew  about  it," 
said  she,  grasping  his  arm  with  her  wiry 
fingers,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  wreak  her 
anger  on  him. 

"Knew  about  what?"  said  Francis  won- 
deringly.  "  What  is  the  matter,  Aunt  Jane  ?  " 

"  Did  you  know  Flora  went  to  the  minis 
ter's  and  got  married  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Francis  slowly,  "  I  didn't; 
but  I  knew  she  would,  well  enough." 

"Did  Flora  tell  you?" 

"  No,  she  didn't  tell  me,  but  I  knew  she 
wouldn't  do  anything  else." 

"Knew  she  wouldn't  do  anything  else? 
I'd  like  to  know  what  you're  talkin'  about, 
Francis  Arms." 

"  I  knew  as  long  as  she  was  Flora  Max 
well,  and  her  wedding  was  set  for  to-day 
three  months  ago,  it  wasn't  very  likely  that 
old  Mr.  Maxwell's  dying  and  not  leaving  her 
his  money,  and  your  not  liking  it,  was  going 
to  stop  her." 


182  JANE    FIELD 

"Hadn't  it  ought  to  have  stopped  her? 
Hadn't  the  wishes  of  a  mother  that's  slaved 
for  her  all  her  life,  and  didn't  want  her  to 
get  married  without  a  silk  gown  to  her  back 
to  a  man  that  ain't  any  prospects  of  being 
able  to  buy  her  any,  ought  to  have  stopped 
her,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"I  guess  Flora  didn't  think  much  about 
silk  gowns,  Aunt  Jane,"  said  Francis,  and 
his  face  reddened  a  little.  "  I  guess  she 
didn't  think  much  about  anything  but 
George." 

"George!  What's  George  Freeman? 
What's  all  the  Freemans?  I  ain't  never 
liked  them.  They  wa'n't  never  up  to  our 
folks.  His  mother  ain't  never  had  a  black 
silk  dress  to  her  name — never  had  a  thing 
.j  better  than  black  cashmere,  an'  they  ain't 
never  had  a  thing  but  oil-cloth  in  their 
front  entry,  an'  the  Perry's  ain't  never  no 
ticed  them  either.  I  ain't  never  wanted 
Flora  to  go  into  that  family.  I  never  felt 
as  if  she  was  lookin'  high  enough,  an'  I 
knew  George  couldn't  get  no  kind  of  a 
livin'  jest  being  clerk  in  Mason's  store. 
But  I  felt  different  about  it  before  Thomas 
died,  for  I  thought  she'd  have  money  enough 


JANE    FIELD  183 

of  her  own,  an'  she  was  gettin'  a  little  on 
in  years,  and  George  was  good-lookin' 
enough.  After  Thomas  died  an'  left  all  his 
money  to  Edward's  wife,  I  hadn't  an  idea 
Flora  would  be  such  a  fool  as  to  think  of 
marryin'  George  Freeman.  She'd  been  bet 
ter  off  if  she'd  never  been  married.  I 
thought  she'd  given  up  all  notions  of  it." 

"Well,  don't  you  worry,  Aunt  Jane,"  said 
Francis  in  a  hearty  voice.  "  Make  the  best 
of  it.  I  guess  they'll  get  along  all  right. 
If  George  can't  buy  Flora  a  silk  dress  I 
will.  I'd  have  bought  her  one  anyway  if 
I'd  known." 

"You  can  stand  up  for  her  all  you  want 
to,  Francis  Arms,"  cried  his  aunt.  "It's 
nothin'  more  than  I  ought  to  expect.  What 
do  you  s'pose  I'm  goin'  to  do?  Here  I  am 
with  all  these  folks  to  tea  an'  Flora  gone. 
She  might  have  waited  till  to-morrow. 
Here  they  are  all  pryin'  an'  susped:in'. 
But  they  shan't  know  if  I  die  for  it.  They 
shan't  know  that  good-for-nothin'  girl  went 
off  an'  got  married  unbeknown  to  me. 
They've  had  enough  to  crow  over  because 
we  didn't  get  Thomas  Maxwell's  money; 
they  shan't  have  this  nohow.  You'll  have 


184  JANE    FIELD 

to  lend  me  some  money,  an'  I'm  goin'  to 
Boston  to-morrow  an'  I'm  goin'  to  buy  a  silk 
dress  for  Flora  an'  get  it  made,  so  she  can 
go  out  bride  when  she  comes  home;  an' 
they've  got  to  come  here  an'  board.  I 
might  jest  as  well  have  the  board-money  as 
them  Freemans,  an'  folks  shan't  think  we 
ain't  on  good  terms.  Can  you  let  me  have 
some  money  to-morrow  mornin'  ?" 

"Of  course  I  can,  Aunt  Jane,"  said  Fran 
cis  soothingly.  "I'll  make  Flora  a  wed 
ding-present  of  it." 

"I  don't  want  it  for  a  weddin'-present. 
I'll  pay  you  back  some  time.  If  you're 
goin'  to  give  her  a  weddin'-present,  I'd 
rather  you'd  give  her  somethin'  silver  that 
she  can  show.  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  you 
give  her  clothes  for  a  weddin'-present,  as  if 
we  was  poor  as  the  Freemans.  You  didn't 
have  any  pride.  There  ain't  anybody  in 
this  family  ever  had  any  pride  but  me,  an' 
I  have  to  keep  it  up,  an'  nobody  liftin'  a 
finger  to  help  me.  Oh,  dear!"  the  old 
woman  quivered  from  head  to  foot.  Her 
face  worked  as  if  she  was  in  silent  hys 
terics. 

"  Don't,  Aunt  Jane,"  whispered  her  neph- 


JANE    FIELD  185 

ew — "  don't  feel  so  bad.  Maybe  it's  all  for 
the  best.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with 
your  wrist?" 

"  I  burned  it  takin'  the  biscuit  out  of  the 
oven,"  she  groaned. 

"Why,  it's  an  awful  burn.  Don't  you 
want  something  on  it  ?  " 

"No;  I  don't  mind  no  burns. " 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Maxwell  moved  away  from 
her  nephew.  She  began  arranging  the  plates 
on  the  table.  "You  go  into  the  parlor," 
said  she  sharply,  "an'  don't  you  let  'em 
know  you  didn't  know  about  it.  You  act 
kind  of  easy  an'  natural  when  they  speak 
about  it.  You  go  right  in;  tea  won't  be 
ready  quite  yet.  I've  got  something  a  little 
extra  to  see  about." 

Francis  went  into  the  parlor  and  greeted 
the  guests,  shaking  hands  with  them  rather 
boyishly  and  awkwardly.  The  minister's 
wife  made  room  for  him  on  the  sofa  beside 
her. 

"  I  suppose  you'd  like  to  hear  about  your 
cousin's  wedding  that  I  went  to  this  after 
noon,"  said  she,  with  a  blandness  that  had 
a  covert  meaning  to  the  other  women,  who 
listened  eagerly. 


l86  JANE    FIELD 

"Yes,  I  would,"  replied  Francis,  with 
steady  gravity. 

"  I  suppose  it  wasn't  such  a  surprise  to 
you  as  it  was  to  us? "  said  she  directly,  and 
the  other  women  panted. 

"No,  I  suppose  it  wasn't,"  said  Francis. 

Mrs.  Lowe  and  Mrs.  Robbins  glanced  at 
each  other. 

"He  knew,"  Mrs.  Lowe  motioned  with  her 
lips,  nodding. 

"  She  didn't,"  Mrs.  Robbins  motioned 
back,  shaking  her  head. 

Francis  sat  beside  the  minister's  wife. 
She  talked  on  about  the  wedding,  and  he 
listened  soberly  and  assentingly. 

"Well,  it  will  be  your  turn  next,  Fran 
cis,"  said  she,  with  a  sly  graciousness,  and 
the  young  man  reddened,  and  laughed  con 
strainedly. 

Francis  seldom  glanced  at  Lois,  but  it 
was  as  if  her  little  figure  in  the  window  was 
all  he  saw  in  the  room.  She  seemed  so  near 
his  consciousness  that  she  shut  out  all  else 
besides.  Lois  did  not  look  at  him,  but 
once  in  a  while  she  put  up  her  hand  and 
arranged  the  hair  on  her  forehead,  and  after 
she  had  done  so  felt  as  if  she  saw  herself 


THE    MINISTER,    MR.    TUXBURY,    AND    MRS.    ROBBINS's 
HUSBAND    ALL   ARRIVED    TOGETHER  " 


JANE    FIELD  187 

with  his  eyes.  The  air  was  growing  cool ; 
presently  Lois  coughed. 

"  You'd  better  come  away  from  that  win 
dow,"  said  Mrs.  Field,  speaking  out  sud 
denly. 

There  was  no  solicitude  in  her  tone;  it 
was  more  like  harsh  command.  Everybody 
looked  at  Lois;  Francis  with  an  anxious 
interest.  He  partly  arose  as  if  to  make  room 
for  her  on  the  sofa,  but  she  simply  moved 
her  chair  farther  back.  Presently  Francis 
went  over  and  shut  the  window. 

The  minister,  Mr.  Tuxbury,  and  Mrs.  Rob- 
bins's  husband  all  arrived  together  shortly 
afterward.  Mrs.  Maxwell  announced  that 
tea  was  ready. 

"Will  you  please  walk  out  to  tea?"  said 
she,  standing  at  the  door,  in  a  ceremonious 
hush.  And  the  company  arose  hesitatingly, 
looking  at  one  another  for  precedence,  and 
straggled  out. 

"You  sit  here,"  said  Mrs.  Maxwell  to 
Lois,  and  she  pointed  to  a  chair  beside 
Francis. 

Lois  sat  down  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her 
green  and  white  plate  while  the  minister 
asked  the  blessing. 


l88  JANE    FIELD 

"  It's  a  pleasant  day,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Fran 
cis's  voice  in  her  ear,  when  Mrs.  Maxwell 
began  pouring  the  tea. 

"Real  pleasant,"  said  Lois. 

Mrs.  Maxwell  had  on  her  black  gloves 
pouring  the  tea.  The  women  eyed  them 
surreptitiously.  She  wore  them  always  in 
company,  but  this  was  an  innovation.  They 
did  not  know  how  she  had  put  them  on  to 
conceal  the  burn  in  her  wrist  which  she  had 
gotten  in  her  blind  fury  as  she  flew  about 
the  kitchen  preparing  supper,  handling  all 
the  household  utensils/' as  if  they  were 
weapons  to  attack  Providence. 

Mrs.  Maxwell  poured  the  tea  and  por 
tioned  out  the  sugar  with  her  black-gloved 
hands,  and  Mrs.  Field  stiffly  buttered  her 
biscuits.  Nobody  dreamed  of  the  wolves 
at  the  vitals  of  these  two  old  women. 

However,  the  eyes  of  the  guests  from  the 
first  had  wandered  to  a  cake  in  the  centre 
of  the  table.  It  was  an  oblong  black  cake; 
it  was  set  on  a  plate  surrounded  thickly  with 
sprigs  of  myrtle,  and  upon  the  top  lay  a 
little  bouquet  of  white  flowers  and  green 
leaves.  Mrs.  Lowe  and  Mrs.  Robbins,  who 
sat  side  by  side,  looked  at  each  other.  Mrs. 


MRS.    HENRY    MAXWELL 


JANE    FIELD  189 

Lowe's  eyes  said,  "  Is  that  a  wedding-cake  ?'" 
and  Mrs.Robbins's  said:  "I  dunno;  it  ain't 
frosted.  It  looks  jest  like  a  loaf  she's  had 
on  hand." 

But  nothing  could  exceed  the  repose  and 
dignity  with  which  Mrs.  Maxwell,  at  the 
last  stage  of  the  meal,  requested  her  nephew 
to  pass  the  cake  to  her.  Nobody  could 
have  dreamed  as  she  cut  it,  every  turn  of 
her  burned  wrist  giving  her  pain,  of  the 
frantic  haste  with  which  she  had  taken  that 
old  fruit  cake  out  of  the  jar  down-cellar, 
and  pulled  those  sprigs  of  myrtle  from  the 
bank  under  the  north  windows. 

"  Will  you  have  some  weddin'-cake  ?  "  said 
she. 

The  ladies  each  took  a  slice  gingerly  and 
respectfully.  Mrs.  Lowe  and  Mrs.  Robbins 
nodded  to  each  other  imperceptibly.  The 
cake  was  not  iced  with  those  fine  devices 
which  usually  make  a  wedding-loaf,  it  was 
rather  dry,  and  not  particularly  rich;  but 
Mrs.  Maxwell's  perfect  manner  as  she  cut 
and  served  it,  her  acting  on  her  own  little 
histrionic  stage,  h^^jwayed^them^jto  Jier 
will.  Mrs.  Lowe  and  Mrs.  Robbins  both 
thought  she  knew.  But  the  minister's  wife 


IQO  JANE    FIELD 

still  doubted;  and  later,  when  the  other 
women  were  removed  from  the  spell  of  her 
acting,  their  old  suspicions  returned.  It 
was  always  a  mooted  question  in  Elliot 
whether  or  not  Mrs.  Jane  Maxwell  had 
known  of  her  daughter's  marriage.  Not  all 
her  subsequent  behavior,  her  meeting  the 
young  couple  with  open  arms  at  the  station 
on  their  return,  and  Flora's  appearance  at 
church  the  next  Sunday  in  the  silk  dress 
which  her  mother  had  concocted  during  her 
absence,  could  quite  allay  the  suspicion,  al 
though  jt  prevented  it  from  gaining  ground. 
All  that  evening  Mrs.  Maxwell's  courage 
never  flagged.  She  entertained  her  guests 
as  well  as  a  woman  of  Sparta  could  have 
done.  She  even  had  the  coolness  to  pros 
ecute  other  projects  which  she  had  in  mind. 
She  kept  Mrs.  Field  and  Lois  behind  the 
rest,  and  walked  home  with  the  mother, 
that  Francis  might  have  the  girl  to  himself. 
And  she  went  into  the  house  with  Mrs. 
Field,  and  slipped  a  parcel  into  her  pocket, 
while  the  two  young  people  had  a  parting 
word  at  the  gate. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

IT  was  a  hot  afternoon  in  August.  Aman 
da  Pratt  had  set  all  her  windows  wide  open, 
but  no  breeze  came  in,  only  the  fervid  breath 
of  the  fields  and  the  white  road  outside. 

She  sat  at  a  front  window  and  darned  a 
white  stocking;  her  long,  thin  arms  and  her 
neck  showed  faintly  through  her  old  loose 
muslin  sacque.  The  muslin  was  white, 
with  a  close-set  lavender  sprig,  and  she 
wore  a  cameo  brooch  at  her  throat.  The 
blinds  were  closed,  and  she  had  to  bend 
low  over  her  mending  in  order  to  see  in  the 
green  gloom. 

Mrs.  Babcock  came  toiling  up  the  bank 
to  the  house,  but  Amanda  did  not  notice 
her  until  she  reached  the  front  door.  Then 
she  fetched  a  great  laboring  sigh. 

"  Oh,  hum !  "  said  she,  audibly,  in  a  wrath 
ful  voice;  "if  I'd  had  any  idea  of  it,  I 
wouldn't  have  come  a  step." 

Then  Amanda  looked  out  with  a  start. 
191 


192  JANE    FIELD 

"Is  that  you,  Mis'  Babcock  ? "  she  called 
hospitably  through  the  blind. 

"Yes,  it's  me — what's  left  of  me.  Oh, 
hum!  Oh,  hum!  " 

Amanda  ran  and  opened  the  door,  and 
Mrs.  Babcock  entered,  panting.  She  had 
a  green  umbrella,  which  she  furled  with 
difficulty  at  the  door,  and  a  palm-leaf  fan. 
Her  face,  in  the  depths  of  her  scooping 
green  barege  bonnet,  was  dank  with  per 
spiration,  and  scowling  with  indignant  mis 
ery.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  and  fanned 
herself  with  a  desperate  air. 

Amanda  set  her  umbrella  in  the  corner, 
then  she  stood  looking  sympathetically  at 
her.  "  It's  a  pretty  hot  day,  ain't  it  ? "  said 
she. 

"I  should  think  'twas  hot.     Oh,  hum!" 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  get  you  a  tumbler 
of  water  ?" 

"I  dunno.  I  don't  drink  much  cold 
water;  it  don't  agree  with  me  very  well. 
Oh,  dear!  You  ain't  got  any  of  your  beer 
made,  I  s'pose?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  ain't.  I'm  dreadful  sorry. 
Don't  you  want  a  swaller  of  cold  tea?  " 

"Well,    I    dunno    but    I'll    have    jest   a 


JANE    FIELD  193 

swaller,  if  you've  got  some.  Oh,  dear  me, 
hum!  " 

Amanda  went  out  hurriedly,  and  returned 
with  a  britannia  teapot  and  a  tumbler.  She 
poured  out  some  tea,  and  Mrs.  Babcock 
drank  with  desperate  gulps. 

"I  think  cold  tea  is  better  for  anybody 
than  cold  water  in  hot  weather,"  said 
Amanda.  "  Won't  you  have  another  swaller, 
Mis'  Babcock  ?  " 

Mrs.  Babcock  shook  her  head,  and  Aman 
da  carried  the  teapot  and  tumbler  back  to 
the  kitchen,  then  she  seated  herself  again, 
and  resumed  her  mending.  Mrs.  Babcock 
fanned  and  panted,  and  eyed  Amanda. 

"  You  look  cool  enough  in  that  old  mus 
lin  sacque,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  vicious 
injury. 

"Yes,  it  is  real  cool.  I've  kept  this 
sacque  on  purpose  for  a  real  hot  day." 

"Well,  it's  dreadful  long  in  the  shoulder 
seams,  'cordin'  to  the  way  they  make  'em 
now,  but  I  s'pose  it's  cool.  Oh,  hum!  I 
ruther  guess  I  shouldn't  have  come  out  of 
the  house,  if  I'd  any  idea  how  hot  'twas  in 
the  sun.  Seems  to  me  it's  hot  as  an  oven 
here.  I  should  think  you'd  air  off  your 
13 


194  JANE    FIELD 

\1/ 

house  early  in  the  mornin',  an'  then  shut 
your  windows  tight,  an'  keep  the  heat 
out." 

"I  know  some  folks  do  that  way,"  said 
Amanda. 

"Well,  I  always  do,'  an'  I  guess  'most 
everybody  does  that's  good  housekeepers. 
It  makes  a  sight  of  difference." 

Amanda  said  nothing,  but  she  sat 
straighter. 

"I  s'pose  you  don't  have  to  make  any 
fire  from  mornin'  till  night;  seems  as  if  you 
might  keep  cool." 

"  No,  I  don't  have  to." 

"Well,  I  do.  There  I  had  to  go  to  work 
to-day  an'  cook  squash  an'  beans  an'  green 
corn.  The  men  folks  ain't  satisfied  if  they 
don't  have  'em  in  the  time  of  'em.  I  wish 
sometimes  there  wasn't  no  such  thing  as 
garden  sauce.  I  tell  'em  sometimes  I  guess 
if  they  had  to  get  the  things  ready  an'  cook 
'em  themselves,  they'd  go  without.  Seems 
sometimes  as  if  the  whole  creation  was  like 
a  kitchen  without  any  pump  in  it,  specially 
contrived  to  make  women  folks  extra  work. 
Looks  to  me  as  if  pease  without  pods  could 
have  been  contrived  pretty  easy,  and  it 


JANE    FIELD  1 95 

does  seem  as  if  there  wasn't  any  need  of 
havin'  strings  on  the  beans." 

"Mis'  Green  has  got  a  kind  of  beans 
without  any  strings,"  said  Amanda.  "She 
brought  me  over  some  the  other  day,  an' 
they  were  about  the  best  I  ever  eat." 

"Well,  I  know  there  is  a  kind  without 
strings,"  returned  Mrs.  Babcock ;  "but  I 
ain't  got  none  in  my  garden,  an'  I  never 
shall  have,  It  ain't  my  lot  to  have  things 
come  easj".  Seems  as  if  it  got  hotter  an' 
hotter.  Why  don't  you  open  your  front 
door? " 

"  Jest  as  sure  as  I  do,  the  house  will  be 
swarmin'  with  flies." 

"You'd  ought  to  have  a  screen-door.  I 
made  Adoniram  make  me  one  five  years  ago, 
an'  it's  a  real  nice  one;  but  I  know,  of 
course,  you  ain't  got  nobody  to  make  one 
for  you.  Once  in  a  while  it  seems  as  if 
men  folks  come  in  kinder  handy,  an*  they'dj/ 
ought  to,  when  women  work  an'  slave  the 
way  I  do  to  fill  'em  up.  Mebbe  some  time 
when  Adoniram  ain't  drove,  I  could  get  him 
to  make  a  door  for  you.  Mebbe  some  time 
next  winter." 

"I    s'pose    it    would    be    nice,"    replied 


196  JANE    FIELD 

Amanda.  "You're  real  kind  to  offer,  Mis' 
Babcock. " 

"Well,  I  s'pose  women  that  have  men 
folks  to  do  for  'em  ought  d.o  be  kind  of 
obligin'  sometimes  to  them  that  ain't.  I'll 
see  if  I  can  get  Adoniram  to  make  you  a 
screen-door  next  winter.  Seems  to  me  it 
does  get  hotter  an'  hotter.  For  the  land 
sakes,  Amanda  Pratt!  what  are  you  cuttin' 
that  great  hole  in  that  stockin'  heel  for  ? 
Are  you  crazy  ?  " 

Amanda  colored.  "  The  other  stockin's 
got  a  hole  in  it,"  said  she,  "an'  I'm  makin' 
'em  match." 

"Cuttin'  a  great  big  hole  in  a  stockin' 
heel  on  purpose  to  darn  ?  Mandy  Pratt, 
you  ain't? " 

"I  am,"  replied  Amanda,  with  dignity. 

"Well,  if  you  ain't  a  double  and  twisted 
old  maid!"  gasped  Mrs.  Babcock. 

Amanda's  long  face  and  her  neck  were  a 
delicate  red. 

Mrs.  Babcock  laughed  a  loud,  sarcastic 
cackle.  "  I  never — did!"  she  giggled. 

Amanda  opened  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak, 
then  she  shut  it  tightly,  remembering  the 
offer  of  the  screen-door.  She  had  had  so 


JANE    FIELD  197 

few  gifts  in  her  whole  life  that  she  had  a 
meek  impulse  of  gratitude  even  if  one  were 
thrust  into  her  hand  hard  enough  to  hurt 
her. 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Babcock  continued,  still 
sniggering  unpleasantly,  "  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  your  feelin's,  Mandy;  you  needn't  color 
up  so;  but  I  can't  help  laughin'." 

"Laugh,  then,  if  you  want  to,"  said 
Amanda,  with  a  quick  flash.  She  forgot  the 
screen-door. 

Mrs.  Babcock  drew  her  face  down  quickly. 
"Land,  Mandy,"  said  she,  "don't  get  mad. 
I  didn't  mean  anything.  Anybody  knows 
that  old  maids  is  jest  as  good  as  them  that 
gets  married.  I  ain't  told  you  what  I  come 
over  here  for.  I  declare  I  got  so  terrible 
heated  up,  I  couldn't  think  of  nothin'. 
Look  here,  Mandy." 

Amanda  mended  on  the  stocking  foot 
drawn  tightly  over  her  left  hand,  and  did 
not  raise  her  eyes. 

"Mandy,  you  ain't  mad,  be  you?  You 
know  I  didn't  mean  nothin'." 

"  I  ain't  mad,"  replied  Amanda,  in  a  con 
strained  tone. 

"Well,    there   ain't   nothin'    to   be   mad 


198  JANE    FIELD 

about.  Look  here,  Mandy,  how  long  is  it 
since  Mis'  Field  and  Lois  went?" 

"About  three  months." 

"Look  here!  I  dunno  what  you'll  say, 
but  I  think  Mis'  Green  thought  real  fa 
vorable  of  it.  Do  you  know  how  cheap 
you  can  go  down  to  Boston  an'  back  now?" 

Amanda  looked  up.  "  No.  Why  ?  "  said 
she. 

Mrs.  Babcock  stopped  fanning  and  leaned 
forward.  "  Amanda  Pratt,  you  can  go 
down  to  Boston  an'  back,  an'  be  gone  a 
week,  for — three  dollars  an'  sixty  cents." 

Amanda  stared  back  at  her  in  a  startled 
way. 

"Let's  you  an'  me  an'  Mis'  Green  go 
down  an'  see  Mis'  Field  an'  Lois,"  said 
Mrs.  Babcock,  in  a  tragic  voice. 

Amanda  turned  pale.  "  They  don't  live 
in  Boston,"  she  said,  with  a  bewildered  air. 

"  We  can  go  down  to  Boston  on  the  early 
train,"  replied  Mrs.  Babcock,  importantly. 
"  Then  we  can  have  all  the  afternoon  to 
go  round  Boston  an'  see  the  sights,  an' 
then,  toward  night,  we  can  go  out  to  Mis' 
Field's.  Land,  here's  Mis'  Green  now! 
She  said  she'd  come  over  as  soon  as  Abby 


JANE    FIELD  199' 

got  home  from  school.  I'm  jest  tellin'  her 
about  it,  Mis'  Green." 

Mrs.  Green  stood  in  the  doorway,  smil 
ing  half-shamefacedly.  "  I  s'pose  you  think 
it's  a  dreadful  silly  plan,  Mandy,"  said  she 
deprecatingly. 

Amanda  got  up  and  pushed  the  rocking- 
chair  in  which  she  had  been  sitting  toward 
the  new-comer. 

"Set  down,  do,"  said  she.  "I  dunno, 
Mis'  Green.  I  ain't  had  time  to  think  it 
over,  it's  come  so  sudden."  Amanda's  face 
was  collected,  but  her  voice  was  full  of  agi 
tation. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Green,  "  I  ain't  known 
which  end  my  head  is  on  since  Mis'  Bab- 
cock  come  in  an'  spoke  of  it.  First  I 
thought  I  couldn't  go  nohow,  an'  I  dunno 
as  I  can  now.  Still,  it  does  seem  dread 
ful  cheap  to  go  down  to  Boston  an'  back, 
an'  I  ain't  been  down  more'n  four  times 
in  the  last  twenty  years.  I  ain't  been  out 
gaddin'  much,  an'  that's  a  fact." 

"  The  longer  you  set  down  in  one  corner, 
the  longer  you  can,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bab- 
cock.  "  I  believe  in  goin'  while  you've  got 
a  chance,  for  my  part." 


200  JANE    FIELD 

"I  ain't  ever  been  to  Boston,"  said 
Amanda,  and  her  face  had  the  wishful,  far 
away  look  that  her  grandfather's  might 
have  had  when  he  thought  of  the  sea. 

"  It  does  seem  as  if  you'd  ought  to  go 
once,"  said  Mrs. Green. 

"I  say,  let's  start  up  an'  go!"  cried  Mrs. 
Babcock,  in  an  intense  voice. 

The  three  women  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Abby  could  keep  house  for  father  a  few 
days,"  said  Mrs.  Green,  as  if  to  some  carp 
ing  judge;  "an'  it  ain't  goin*  to  cost  much, 
an'  I  know  father'd  say  go." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  can  cook  up  enough  vict 
uals  to  last  Adoniram  and  the  boys  whilst 
I'm  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock  defiantly; 
"  I  guess  they  can  get  along.  Adoniram 
can  make  rye  puddin',  an'  they  can  fill  up  on 
rye  puddin'  an'  molasses.  I'm  a-goin'." 

"I  dunno,"  said  Amanda,  trembling. 
"I'm  dreadful  afraid  I  hadn't  ought  to." 

"Well,  I  should  think  you  could  go,  if 
Mis' Green  an'  I  could,  "said  Mrs.  Babcock. 
"Here  you  ain't  got  nobody  but  jest  your 
self,  an'  ain't  got  to  leave  a  thing  cooked 
up  nor  nothin'." 

"I  would  like  to  see  Mis'  Field  an'  Lois 


JANE    FIELD  2OI 

again,  but  it  seems  like  a  great  undertakin'," 
sighed  Amanda.  "Then  it's  goin'  to  cost 
something." 

"  It  ain't  goin'  to  cost  but  jest  three  dol 
lars  an'  sixty  cents,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock. 
"  I  guess  you  can  afford  that,  Mandy.  There 
your  tenement  didn't  stay  vacant  two  weeks 
after  the  Fields  went;  the  Simmonses  came 
right  in.  I  guess  if  I  had  rent-money,  an' 
nobody  but  myself,  I  could  afford  to  travel 
once  in  a  while." 

"Now  you'd  better  make  up  your  mind 
to  go,  Mandy,"  Mrs.  Green  said.  "I  think 
Mis'  Field  would  be  more  pleased  to  see  you 
than  anybody  in  Green  River.  That's  one 
thing  I  think  about  goin'.  I  know  she'll  be 
tickled  almost  to  death  to  see  us  comin'  in. 
Mis'  Field's  a  real  good  woman.  There 
wa'n't  anybody  in  town  I  set  more  by  than 
I  did  by  her." 

"  When  did  you  hear  from  her  last,  Man 
dy?"  interposed  Mrs.  Babcock. 

"About  a  month  ago." 

"I  s'pose  Lois  is  a  good  deal  better?" 

"  Yes,  I  guess  she  is.  Her  mother  said 
she  seemed  pretty  well  for  her.  I  s'pose  it 
agrees  with  her  better  down  there." 


202  JANE    FIELD 

"  I  s'pose  there  was  a  good  deal  more  fuss 
made  about  her  when  she  was  here  than 
there  was  any  need  of,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock, 
her  whole  face  wrinkled  upward  contemptu 
ously;  "a  great  deal  more  fuss.  There 
wa'n't  nothin'  ailed  the  girl  if  folks  had  let 
her  alone,  talkin'  an'  scarin'  her  mother  to 
death.  She  was  jest  kind  of  run  down  with 
the  spring  weather.  Young  girls  wilt  down 
dreadful  easy,  an'  spring  up  again.  I've 
seen  'em.  'Twa'n't  nothin'." 

"  Well,  I  dunno;  she  looked  dreadfully," 
Mrs.  Green  said,  with  mild  opposition. 

*'  Well,  you  can  see  how  much  it  amounted 
to,"  returned  Mrs.  Babcock,  with  a  trium 
phant  sniff.  "  Folks  ought  to  have  been 
ashamed  of  themselves,  scarin'  Mis'  Field 
the  way  they  did  about  her.  Seemed  as  if 
they  was  determined  to  have  Lois  go  into 
consumption  whether  or  no,  an'  was  goin' 
to  push  her  in,  if  they  couldn't  manage  it  in 
no  other  way.  I  s'pose  you've  sent  all  Mis' 
Field's  things  down  there,  Mandy?" 

"The  furniture  is  all  up  garret,"  said 
Amanda.  "All  I've  sent  down  was  their 
clothes.  Mi's'  Field  had  me  pack  'em  up 
in  their  two  trunks,  an'  send  'em  down  to 


JANE    FIELD  203 

Lois.  I  didn't  see  why  she  didn't  have  me 
mark  'em  to  her." 

"I  should  think  it  was  kind  of  queer," 
said  Mrs.  Green.  "  Now  s'pose  we  go,  what 
had  we  better  carry  for  clothes?  We  don't 
need  no  trunk." 

"  Of  course  we  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock 
promptly.  "  We  can  each  carry  a  bag.  We 
ain't  going  to  need  much." 

"I  guess,  if  I  went,"  said  Amanda,  "that 
I  should  carry  this  sacque  to  slip  on,  if  it's 
as  hot  weather  as  'tis  now.  I  should  have 
to  do  it  up,  but  that  ain't  much  work." 

Mrs.  Babcock  eyed  it.  "Well,  I  dunno," 
said  she;  "it's  pretty  long  in  the  shoul 
der  seams.  I  dunno  how  much  they  dress 
down  there  where  Mis'  Field  lives.  Mebbe 
'twould  do." 

"There's  one  thing  I've  been  thinkin' 
about,"  Mrs.  Green  said,  with  an  anxious 
air.  "  If  we  go  down  on  that  early  train, 
an'  stay  all  day  in  Boston,  we  shall  have  to 
buy  us  something  to  eat;  we  should  get 
dreadful  faint  before  we  got  out  to  Mis' 
Field's,  and  things  are  dreadful  high  in 
those  places." 

"Oh,  land!"  cried  Mrs.  Babcock  in  a  su- 


204  JANE    FIELD 

perior  tone.  "All  we've  got  to  do  is  to 
carry  some  luncheon  with  us.  I'll  make 
some  pies,  and  you  can  bake  some  cookies, 
an'  then  we'll  set  down  in  Boston  Common 
an'  eat  it.  That's  the  way  lots  of  folks  do. 
That  ain't  nothin'  to  worry  about.  Well, 
now,  I  think  it's  about  time  for  us  to  decide 
whether  or  no  we're  goin'.  I've  got  to  go 
home  an'  git  supper." 

"I'll  do  jest  as  the  rest  say,"  said  Mrs. 
Green.  "I  s'pose  I  can  go.  I  s'pose 
father'll  say  I'd  better.  An'  Abby  she  was 
all  for  it,  when  I  spoke  about  it  to  her.  She 
thinks  she  can  have  the  Fay  girl  over  to 
stay  with  her,  an'  she  wants  me  to  buy  her 
a  dress  in  Boston,  instead  of  gettin'  it 
here." 

"Well, "said  Amanda,  with  a  sigh — she 
was  quite  pale — "I'll  think  of  it." 

"We've  got  to  make  up  our  minds,"  said 
Mrs.  Babcock  sharply.  "There  ain't  time 
for  much  thinkin'.  The  excursion  starts  a 
day  after  to-morrow." 

"I'll  have  my  mind  made  up  to-morrow 
mornin',"  said  Amanda.  "  I've  got  to  think 
of  it  over-night,  anyhow.  I  can't  start  right 
up  an'  say  I'll  go,  without  a  minute  to  think 


JANE    FIELD  205 

about  it."  Her  voice  trembled  nervously, 
but  decision  underlay  it. 

"  I  don't  see  why  it  ain't  time  enough  if 
we  decide  to-morrow  morning.  I'd  ruther 
like  to  think  of  it  a  little  while  longer," 
said  Mrs.  Green. 

Mrs.  Babcock  got  up.  "Well,"  said  she, 
"I'll  send  Adoniram  round  to-morrow 
mornin',  an'  you  tell  him  what  you've  de 
cided.  I  guess  I  shall  go  whether  or  no. 
I've  got  three  men  folks  to  leave,  an'  it's 
a  good  deal  more  of  an  undertakin'  for  me 
than  some,  but  I  ain't  easy  scart.  I  b'lieve 
in  goin'  once  in  a  while." 

"Well,  I'll  let  you  know  in  the  mornin'. 
I  jest  want  to  think  of  it  over-night,"  re 
peated  Amanda,  with  dignified  apology. 

She  went  to  the  door  with  her  guests. 
Mrs.  Babcock  spread  her  green  umbrella, 
and  descended  the  steps  with  a  stiff  side-wise 
motion. 

"It  is  hotter  than  ever,  I  do  believe,"  she 
groaned. 

"  Well,  now,  I  was  jest  thinkin'  it  was  a 
little  grain  cooler,"  returned  Mrs.  Green, 
following  in  her  wake.  Her  back  was 
meekly  bent;  her  face,  shaded  by  a  black 


2O6  JANE    FIELD 

sun-hat,  was  thrust  forward  with  patient 
persistency.  "  There,  I  feel  a  little  breeze 
now,"  she  added. 

"  I  guess  all  the  breeze  there  is,  is  in  your 
own  motion,"  retorted  Mrs.  Babcock.  Her 
green  umbrella  bobbed  energetically.  She 
fanned  at  every  step. 

"  Mebbe  it's  your  fan,"  said  the  other 
woman. 

Amanda  went  into  the  house  and  shut 
the  door.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
parlor  and  looked  around.  There  was  a 
certain  amaze  in  her  eyes,  as  if  everything 
wore  a  new  aspect.  "  They  can  talk  all 
they've  a  mind  to,"  she  muttered,  "it's  a 
great  undertakin'.  S'pose  anything  hap 
pened?  If  anything  happened  to  them 
whilst  they  were  gone,  there's  folks  enough 
to  home  to  see  to  things.  S'pose  anything 
happened  to  me,  there  ain't  anybody.  If  I 
go,  I've  got  to  leave  this  house  jest  so. 
I've  got  to  be  sure  the  bureau  drawers  are 
all  packed  up,  an'  things  swept  an'  dusted, 
so  folks  won't  make  remarks.  There's  other 
things,  too.  Everything's  got  to  be  thought 
of.  There's  the  cat.  I  s'pose  I  could  get 
Abby  Green  to  come  over  an'  feed  her,  but 


JANE    FIELD  207 

I  dassen't  trust  her.  Young  girls  ain't  to 
be  depended  on.  Ten  chances  to  one  she'd 
get  to  carryin'  on  with  that  Fay  girl  an'  for- 
git  all  about  that  cat.  She  won't  lap  her 
milk  out  of  anything  but  a  clean  saucer, 
neither,  and  I  don't  believe  Abby  would 
look  out  for  that.  She  always  seemed  to 
me  kind  of  heedless.  I  dunno  about  the 
whole  of  it." 

Amanda  shook  her  head;  her  eyes  were 
dilated;  there  was  an  anxious  and  eager 
expression  in  her  face.  She  went  into  the 
kitchen,  kindled  the  fire,  and  made  herself 
a  cup  of  tea,  which  she  drank  absently.  She 
could  not  eat  anything. 

The  cat  came  mewing  at  the  door,  and 
she  let  her  in  and  fed  her.  "  I  dunno 
how  she'd  manage,"  she  said,  as  she 
watched  her  lap  the  milk  from  the  clean 
saucer  beside  the  cooking-stove. 

After  she  had  put  away  the  cat's  saucer 
and  her  own  tea-cup,  she  stood  hesitating. 

"  Well,  I  don't  care, "  said  she,  in  a  decisive 
tone;  "I'm  goin'  to  do  it.  It's  got  to  be 
done,  anyhow,  whether  I  go  or  not.  It's 
been  on  my  mind  for  some  time." 

Amanda  got  out  her  best  black  dress  from 


2O8  JANE    FIELD 

the  closet,  and  sat  down  to  alter  the  shoulder 
seams.  "I  don't  care  nothin'  about  this 
muslin  sacque,"  said  she,  "but  I  ain't  goin' 
to  have  Mis'  Babcock  measurin'  my  shoulder 
seams  every  single  minute  if  I  do  go,  an' 
they  may  be  real  dressy  down  where  Mis' 
Field  is." 

Amanda  sewed  until  ten  o'clock;  then  she 
went  to  bed,  but  she  slept  little.  She  was 
up  early  the  next  morning.  Adoniram 
Babcock  came  over  about  eight  o'clock;  the 
windows  and  blinds  were  all  flung  wide  open, 
the  braided  rugs  lay  out  in  the  yard.  He 
put  his  gentle  grizzled  face  in  at  one  of  the 
windows.  There  was  a  dusty  odor.  Amanda 
was  sweeping  vigorously,  with  a  white  hand 
kerchief  tied  over  her  head.  Her  delicate 
face  was  all  of  a  deep  pink  color. 

"  Ann  Lizy  sent  over  to  see  if  you'd  made 
up  your  mind,"  said  Adoniram. 

Amanda  started.  "  Good-mornin',  Mr. 
Babcock.  Yes,  you  can  tell  her  I  have. 
I'm  a-goin'."  . 

There  was  a  reckless  defiance  of  faith  in 
Amanda's  voice.  She  had  a  wild  air  as  she 
stood  there  with  the  broom  in  a  faint  swirl 
of  dust. 


I    DUN    KNOW    HOW    SHE  D    MANAGE 


JANE    FIELD  2OQ 

"Well,  Ann  Lizy'll  be  glad  you've  made 
up  your  mind  to.  She's  gone  to  bakin','' 
said  the  old  man  in  the  window. 

"I've  got  to  bake  some,  too,"  said 
Amanda.  She  began  sweeping  again. 

"  I've  jest  been  over  to  Mis'Green's,  an'  she 
says  she's  goin'  if  you  do, "  said  Mr.  Babcock. 

"Well,  you  tell  her  I'm  goin',''  said 
Amanda,  with  a  long  breath. 

"I  guess  you'll  have  a  good  time,"  said 
the  old  man,  turning  away.  "I  tell  Ann 
Lizy  she  can  stay  a  month  if  she  wants  to. 
Me  an'  the  boys  can  git  along. "  He  laughed 
a  pleasant  chuckle  as  he  went  off. 

Amanda  glanced  after  him.  "  I  shouldn't 
care  if  I  had  a  man  to  leave  to  look  after 
the  house,"  said  she. 

Amanda  toiled  all  day;  she  swept  and 
dusted  every  room  in  her  little  domicile. 
She  put  all  her  bureau  drawers  and  closets 
in  exquisite  order.  She  did  not  neglect 
even  the  cellar  and  the  garret.  Mrs.  Bab- 
cock,  looking  in  at  night,  found  her  rolling 
out  sugar  gingerbread. 

"For  the  land  sakes,  Mandy!  "  said  she, 
"what  are  you   cookin'   by  lamp-light   for 
this  awful  hot  night?" 
14 


2IO  JANE    FIELD 

"I'm  makin'  a  little  short  gingerbread 
for  luncheon." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  left  it  till  this  time 
of  day  for.  What  you  got  them  irons  on  the 
stove  for? " 

"  I've  got  to  iron  my  muslin  sacque.  I've 
got  it  all  washed  and  starched." 

"Ironin'  this  time  of  day!  I'd  like  to 
know  what  you've  been  doin'  ever,  since  you 
got  up? " 

"  I've  been  getting  everything  in  order,  in 
case  anything  happened,"  replied  Amanda. 
She  tried  to  speak  with  cool  composure,  but 
her  voice  trembled.  Her  dignity  failed  her 
in  this  unwonted  excitement. 

"What's  goin'  to  happen,  for  the  land 
sake?"  cried  Mrs.  Babcock. 

"  I  dunno.  None  of  us  know.  Things 
do  happen  sometimes." 

Mrs.  Babcock  stared  at  her,  half  in  con 
tempt,  half  in  alarm.  "  I  hope  you  ain't 
had  no  forewarnin'  that  you  ain't  goin'  to 
live  nor  anything,"  said  she.  "  If  you  have, 
I  should  think  you'd  better  stay  to  home." 

"  I  ain't  had  no  more  forewarnin'  than  any 
body,"  said  Amanda.  "All  is,  there  ain't 
nobody  in  the  other  part  of  the  house.  The 


JANE    FIELD  211 

Simmonses  all  went  yesterday  to  make  a 
visit  at  her  mother's,  and  in  case  anything 
should  happen,  I'm  goin'  to  leave  things 
lookin'  so  I'm  willin'  anybody  should  see 
'em." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock,  "I  guess  you 
couldn't  leave  things  so  you'd  be  willin' 
anybody'd  see  'em  if  you  had  three  men 
folks  afoul  of  'em  for  three  days.  I've 
got  to  be  goin'  if  I  git  up  for  that  four- 
o'clock  train  in  the  mornin'.  I've  made  fif 
teen  pies  an'  five  loaves  of  bread,  besides 
bakin'  beans,  to  say  nothin'  of  a  great  pan 
ful  of  doughnuts  an'  some  cake.  I  ain't 
been  up  garret  nor  down  cellar  cleanin',  an' 
if  anything  happens  to  me,  I  s'pose  folks'll 
see  some  dust  and  cobwebs,  but  I've  done 
considerable.  Adoniram's  goin'  to  take  us 
all  down  in  the  covered  wagon;  he'll  be 
round  about  half-past  four." 

Amanda  lighted  Mrs.  Babcock  out  the 
front  door;  then  she  returned  to  her  tasks. 
She  did  not  go  to  bed  that  night.  She  had 
put  her  bedroom  in  perfect  order,  and  would 
not  disturb  it.  She  lay  down  on  her  hard 
parlor  sofa  awhile,  but  she  slept  very  little. 
At  two  o'clock  she  kindled  a  fire,  made  some 


212  JANE    FIELD 

tea,  and  cooked  an  egg  for  her  breakfast. 
Then  she  arrayed  herself  in  her  best  dress. 
She  was  all  ready,  her  bag  and  basket  of 
luncheon  packed  and  her  bonnet  on,  at  three 
o'clock.  She  sat  down  and  folded  her  hands 
to  wait,  but  presently  started  up.  "I'm 
going  to  do  it,"  said  she.  "I  don't  care, 
I  am.  I  can't  feel  easy  unless  I  do." 

She  got  some  writing-paper  and  pen  and 
ink  from  the  chimney  cupboard  and  sat 
down  at  the  table.  She  wrote  rapidly,  her 
lips  pursed,  her  head  to  one  side.  Then 
she  folded  the  paper,  wrote  on  the  outside, 
and  arranged  it  conspicuously  on  the  top  of 
a  leather-covered  Bible  on  the  centre  of  the 
table.  "  There!  "  said  she.  "  It  ain't  regu 
lar,  I  s'pose,  an'  I  ain't  had  any  lawyer,  but 
I  guess  they'd  carry  out  my  wishes  if  any 
thing  happened  to  me.  I  ain't  got  nobody 
but  Cousin  Rhoda  Hill,  an'  Cousin  Maria 
Bennet;  an'  Rhoda  don't  need  a  cent,  an' 
Maria'd  ought  to  have  it  all.  This  house 
will  make  her  real  comfortable,  an'  my 
clothes  will  fit  her.  I  s'pose  I'd  have  this 
dress  on, but  my  black  alpaca's  pretty  good. 
I  s'pose  Mis'  Babcock  would  laugh,  but 
I  feel  a  good  deal  easier  about  goin'." 


JANE    FIELD  213 

Amanda  waited  again;  she  blew  out  her 
lamp,  for  the  early  dawnlight  strengthened. 
She  listened  intently  for  wheels,  and  looked 
anxiously  at  the  clock.  "  It  would  be  dread 
ful  if  we  got  left,  after  all,"  she  said. 

Suddenly  the  covered  wagon  came  in 
sight;  the  white  horse  trotted  at  a  good 
pace.  Adoniram  held  the  reins  and  his 
wife  sat  beside  him.  Mrs.  Green  peered  out 
from  the  back  seat.  "Mandy!  Mandy!  " 
Mrs.  Babcock  called,  before  they  reached  the 
gate.  But  Amanda  was  already  on  the  front 
door-step,  fitting  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"  I'm  all  ready,"  she  answered,  "jest  as 
soon  as  I  can  get  the  door  locked." 

"We  ain't  got  any  too  much  time,"  cried 
Mrs.  Babcock. 

Amanda  went  down  the  path  with  her 
basket  and  black  valise  and  parasol.  Adon 
iram  got  out  and  helped  her  into  the  wagon. 
She  had  to  climb  over  the  front  seat.  As 
they  drove  off  she  leaned  out  and  gazed 
back  at  the  house.  Her  tortoise-shell  cat 
was  coming  around  the  corner.  "  I  do  hope 
the  cat  will  get  along  all  right,"  she  said 
agitatedly.  "I've  fed  her  thismornin',  an' 
I've  left  her  enough  milk  till  I  get  back — 


214  JANE    FIELD 

a  saucerful  for  each  day — an'  Abby  said 
she'd  give  her  all  the  scraps  off  the  table, 
you  know,  Mis'  Green." 

Mrs.  Babcock  turned  around.  "  Now, 
Amanda  Pratt,"  said  she,  "I'd  like  to  know 
how  in  creation  you've  left  a  saucerful  of 
milk  for  that  cat  for  every  day  till  you  get 
back." 

"I  set  ten  saucers  full  of  milk  down  cel 
lar,"  replied  Amanda,  still  staring  back  anx 
iously  at  the  cat — "  one  for  each  day.  I 
got  extra  milk  last  night  on  purpose.  She 
likes  it  jest  as  well  if  it's  sour,  if  the  sau 
cer's  clean." 

Amanda  looked  up  with  serious  wonder  at 
Mrs.  Babcock,  who  was  laughing  shrilly. 
Mrs.  Green,  too,  was  smiling,  and  Adoniram 
chuckled. 

"For  the  land  sakes,  Amanda  Pratt!" 
gasped  Mrs.  Babcock,  "you  don't  s'pose 
that  cat  is  goin'  to  stint  herself  to  a  saucer 
a  day?  Why,  she'll  eat  half  of  it  all  up 
before  night." 

Amanda  stood  up  in  the  carriage.  "  I've, 
got  to  go  back,  that's  all,"  said  she.  "I 
ain't  goin'  to  have  that  cat  starve." 

"Land    sakes,    set    down!"    cried    Mrs. 


JANE    FIELD  215 

Babcock.  "  She  won't  starve.  She  can 
hunt." 

"Abby'll  feed  her,  I  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Green,  pulling  gently  at  her  companion's 
arm.  "  Don't  you  worry,  Mandy. " 

"Well,  I  guess  I  shouldn't  worry  about 
a  cat  with  claws  to  catch  mice  in  warm 
weather,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock,  with  a  sarcas 
tic  titter.  "It's  goin'  to  be  a  dreadful  hot 
day.  Set  down,  Mandy.  There  ain't  no  use 
talkin'  about  goin'  back.  There  ain't  any 
time.  Mis'  Green  an'  me  ain't  goin'  to  stay 
to  home  on  account  of  a  cat." 

Amanda  subsided  weakly.  She  felt 
strange.,  and  not  like  herself.  Mrs.  Babcock 
seemed  to  recognize  it  by  some  subtle  intui 
tion.  She  would  never  have  daied  use  such 
a  tone  toward  her  without  subsequent  con 
cessions.  Amanda  had  always  had  a  certain 
dignity  and  persistency  which  had  served 
to  intimidate  too  presuming  people;  now 
she  had  lost  it  all, 

"I'll  write  to  Abby,  jest  as  soon  as  I  get 
down  there,  to  give  the  cat  her  milk,"  whis 
pered  Mrs.  Green  soothingly ;  and  Amanda 
was  comforted. 

The  covered  wagon  rolled  along  the  coun- 


2l6  JANE    FIELD 

try  road  toward  the  railroad  station.  Ad- 
oniram  drove,  and  the  three  women  sat  up 
straight,  and  looked  out  with  a  strange  in 
terest,  as  if  they  had  never  seen  the  land 
scape  before.  The  meadows  were  all  filmy 
with  cobwebs;  there  were  patches  of  corn 
in  the  midst  of  them,  and  the  long  blades 
drooped  limply.  The  flies  swarmed  thickly 
over  the  horse's  back.  The  air  was  scald 
ing;  there  was  a  slight  current  of  cool 
freshness  from  the  dewy  ground,  but  it 
would  soon  be  gone. 

"  It  ain't  goin'  to  rain,"  said  Mrs.  Bab- 
cock,  "there's  cobwebs  on  the  grass,  but 
it's  goin'  to  be  terrible  hot." 

They  reached  the  station  fifteen  minutes 
before  the  train.  After  Adoniram  had 
driven  away,  they  sat  in  a  row  on  a  bench 
on  the  platform,  with  their  baggage  around 
them.  They  did  not  talk  much ;  even  Mrs. 
Babcock  looked  serious  and  contemplative 
in  this  momentary  lull.  Their  thoughts 
reached  past  and  beyond  them  to  the  homes 
they  had  left,  and  the  new  scenes  ahead. 

When  the  whistle  of  the  train  sounded 
they  all  stood  up,  and  grasped  their  valises 
tightly.  Mrs.  Green  looked  toward  the 


o 

i 


JANE    FIELD  2  17 

coming  train;  her  worn  face  under  her  black 
bonnet,  between  its  smooth  curves  of  gray 
hair,  had  all  the  sensitive  earnestness  which 
comes  from  generations  of  high  breeding. 
She  was,  on  her  father's  side,  of  a  race  of  old 
New  England  ministers. 

"Well,  I  dunno  but  I've  been  pretty 
faithful,  an'  minded  my  household  the  way 
women  are  enjoined  to  in  the  Scriptures; 
mebbe  it's  right  for  me  to  take  this  little 
vacation,"  she  said,  and  her  serious  eyes 
were  full  of  tears, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WHEN  Jane  Field,  in  her  assumed  charac 
ter,  had  lived  three  months  in  Elliot,  she 
was  still  unsuspected.  She  was  not  liked, 
and  that  made  her  secret  safer.  She  was 
full  of  dogged  resolution  and  audacity. 
She  never  refused  to  see  a  caller  nor  accept 
an  invitation,  but  people  never  called  upon 
her  nor  invited  her  when  they  could  avoid 
it,  and  thus  she  was  not  so  often  exposed 
to  contradictions  and  inconsistencies  which 
might  have  betrayed  her.  Elliot  people  not 
only  disliked  her,  they  were  full  of  out 
spoken  indignation  against  her.  The  defi 
ant,  watchful  austerity  which  made  her  re 
pel  when  she  intended  to  encourage  their 
advances  had  turned  them  against  her,  but 
more  than  that  her  supposed  ill-treatment 
of  her  orphan  niece. 

When  Lois,  the  third  week  of  her  stay  in 
Elliot,  had  gone  to  a  dressmaker  and  asked 
for  some  sewing  to  do,  the  news  was  well 
over  the  village  by  night.  "That  woman, 


JAXE    FIELD  219 

who  has  all  John  Maxwell's  money,  is  too 
stingy  and  mean  to  support  her  niece,  and 
she  too  delicate  to  work,"  people  said. 
The  dressmaker  to  whom  Lois  appealed  did 
not  for  a  minute  hesitate  to  give  her  work, 
although  she  had  already  many  women 
sewing  for  her,  and  she  had  just  given  some 
to  Mrs.  Maxwell's  daughter  Flora. 

"There!"  said  she,  when  Lois  had  gone 
out.  u  I  ain't  worth  five  hundred  dollars  in 
the  world,  I  don't  know  how  she'll  sew,  and 
I  didn't  need  any  extra  help — it's  takin'  it 
right  out  of  my  pocket,  likely  as  not — but  I 
couldn't  turn  off  a  cat  that  looked  up  at  me 
the  way  that  child  did.  She  looks  pinched. 
1  don't  believe  that  old  woman  gives  her 
enough  to  eat.  Of  all  the  mean  work — 
worth  all  that  money,  and  sending  her  niece 
out  to  get  sewing  to  do!  I  don't  believe 
but  what  she's  most  starved  her." 

It  was  true  that  Lois  for  the  last  week  had 
not  had  enough  to  eat,  but  neither  had  her 
mother.  The  two  had  been  eking  out  the 
remnants  of  Lois's  school-money  as  best 
they  might.  There  were  many  provisions 
in  the  pantry  and  cellar  of  the  Maxwell 
house,  but  they  would  touch  none  of  them. 


220  JANE    FIELD 

Some  money  which  Mr.  Tuxbury  had  paid 
to  Mrs.  Field  —  the  first  instalment  from 
the  revenue  of  her  estate — she  had  put  care 
fully  away  in  a  sugar-bowl  on  the  top  shelf 
of  the  china  closet,  and  had  not  spent  a  penny 
of  it.  After  Lois  began  to  sew,  her  slender 
earnings  provided  them  with  the  most  frugal 
fare.  Mrs.  Field  eked  it  out  in  every  way 
that  she  could.  She  had  a  little  vegetable 
garden  and  kept  a  few  hens.  As  the  season 
advanced,  she  scoured  the  berry  pastures, 
and  spent  many  hours  stooping  painfully 
over  the  low  bushes.  Three  months  from 
the  time  at  which  she  came  to  Elliot,  on  the 
day  on  which  her  neighbors  started  from 
Green  River  to  visit  her,  she  was  out  in  the 
pasture  trying  to  fill  her  pail  with  blueber 
ries.  All  the  sunlight  seemed  to  centre  on 
her  black  figure  like  a  burning-glass;  the 
thick  growth  of  sweet-fern  around  the  blue 
berry  bushes  sent  a  hot  and  stifling  aroma 
into  her  face;  the  wild  flowers  hung  limply, 
like  delicate  painted  rags,  and  the  rocks 
were  like  furnaces.  Mrs.  Field  went  out 
soon  after  dinner,  and  at  half-past  five  she 
was  still  picking;  the  berries  were  not  very 
plentiful. 


':.- 


I 


JANE    FIELD  221 

Lois,  at  home,  wondered  why  she  did  not 
return,  and  the  more  because  there  was  a 
thunder-storm  coming  up.  There  was  a 
heavy  cloud  in  the  northwest,  and  a  steady 
low  rumble  of  thunder.  Lois  sat  out  in 
the  front  yard  sewing;  her  face  was  pink 
and  moist  with  the  heat;  the  sleeves  of  her 
old  white  muslin  dress  clung  to  her  arms. 
Presently  the  gate  clicked,  and  Mrs.  Jane 
Maxwell's  daughter  Flora  came  toward  her 
over  the  grass. 

"Hullo!"  said  she. 

"  Hullo!  "  returned  Lois. 

"  It's  a  terrible  day— isn't  it  ?  " 

"Terrible!" 

Lois  got  up,  but  Flora  would  not  take  her 
chair.  She  sat  down  clumsily  on  the  pine 
needles,  and  fanned  herself  with  the  cover 
of  a  book  she  carried. 

"I've  just  been  down  to  the  library,  an' 
got  this  book,"  she  remarked. 

"  Is  it  good  ?  " 

"  They  say  it's  real  good.  Addie  Green's 
been  reading  it." 

Flora  wore  a  bright  blue  cambric  dress 
and  a  brown  straw  hat.  Her  figure  was 
stout  and  high-shouldered,  her  dull-complex- 


222  JANE    FIELD 

ioned  face  full  of  placid  force.  She  was  not 
very  young,  and  she  looked  much  older  than 
she  was;  and  people  had  wondered  how 
George  Freeman,  who  was  handsome  and 
much  courted  by  the  girls,  as  well  as  younger 
than  she,  had  come  to  marry  her.  They 
also  wondered  how  her  mother,  who  had 
been  so  bitterly  opposed  to  the  match,  had 
given  in,  and  was  now  living  so  amicably 
with  the  young  couple:  they  had  been  on 
the  alert  for  a  furious  village  feud.  But 
when  Flora  and  her  husband  had  returned 
from  their  stolen  wedding  tour,  Mrs.  Max 
well  had  met  them  at  the  depot  and  bidden 
them  home  with  her  with  vociferous  ardor, 
and  the  next  Sunday  Flora  had  gone  to 
church  in  the  new  silk.  There  had  been  a 
conflict  of  two  wills,  and  one  had  covered 
its  defeat  with  a  parade  of  victory.  Mrs. 
Maxwell  had  talked  a  great  deal  about  her 
daughter's  marriage  and  how  well  she  had 
done. 

"There's  a  thunder-shower  coming  up," 
Flora  said  after  a  little.  "Where's  your 
aunt?  " 

"  Gone  berrying." 

"She'll   get  caught  in  the  shower   if  she 


JANE    FIELD  223 

don't  look  out.  What  makes  you  work  so 
steady  this  hot  day,  Lois?" 

"  I've  got  to  get  this  done." 

"There  isn't  any  need  of  your  working 
so  hard." 

Lois  said  nothing. 

"  If  your  aunt  ain't  willing  to  do  for  you 
it's  time  you  had  somebody  else  to,"  per 
sisted  Flora.  "  I  wish  I  had  had  the  money 
on  your  account.  I  wouldn't  have  let  you 
work  so.  You  look  better  than  you  did 
when  you  came  here,  but  you  look  tired.  I 
heard  somebody  else  say  so  the  other  day." 

Flora  said  the  last  with  a  meaning  smile. 

Lois  blushed. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  Flora  repeated.  "I  don't 
suppose  you  can  guess  who  'twas?" 

Lois  said  nothing;  she  bent  her  hot  face 
closer  over  her  work. 

"See  here,  Lois,"  said  Flora.  She  hesi 
tated  with  her  eyes  fixed  warily  on  Lois; 
then  she  went  on :  "  What  makes  you  treat 
Francis  so  queer  lately?" 

"I  didn't  know  I  had,"  replied  Lois, 
evasively. 

"You  don't  treat  him  a  bit  the  way  you 
did  at  first." 


224  JANE    FIELD 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Flora." 

"Well,  if  you  don't,  it's  no  matter,"  re 
turned  Flora.  "  Francis  hasn't  said  anything 
about  it  to  me;  you  needn't  think  he  has. 
All  is,  you'll  never  find  a  better  fellow  than 
he  is,  Lois  Field,  I  don't  care  where  you  go." 

Flora  spoke  with  slow  warmth.  Lois's 
face  quivered.  "If  you  don't  take  care 
you'll  never  get  married  at  all,"  said  Flora, 
half  laughing. 

Lois  sat  up  straight.  "I  shall  never  get 
married  to  anybody,"  said  she.  "That's 
one  thing  I  won't  do.  I'll  die  first." 

Flora  stared  at  her.  "  Why,  why  not  ?  " 
said  she. 

"I  won't." 

"I  never  knew  what  happiness  was  until 
I  got  married,"  said  Flora.  Then  she  flushed 
up  suddenly  all  over  her  steady  face. 

Lois,  too,  started  and  blushed,  as  if  the 
other  girl's  speech  had  struck  some  answer 
ing  chord  in  her.  The  two  were  silent  a 
moment.  Lois  sewed;  Flora  stared  off 
through  the  trees  at  the  darkening  sky. 
The  low  rumble  of  thunder  was  incessant. 

"  George  is  one  of  the  best  husbands  that 
ever  a  girl  had,"  said  Flora,  in  a  tender, 


JANE    FIELD  225 

shamed  voice;  "but  Francis  would  make 
just  as  good  a  one." 

Lois  made  no  reply.  She  almost  turned 
her  back  toward  Flora  as  she  sewed. 

"I  guess  you'll  change  your  mind  some 
time  about  getting  married,"  Flora  said. 

"No,  I  never  will,"  returned  Lois. 

"Well,  I  suppose  if  you  don't,  you'll  have 
money  enough  to  take  care  of  yourself  with 
some  time,  as  far  as  that  goes,"  said  Flora. 
Her  voice  had  a  sarcastic  ring. 

"  I  shall  never  have  one  cent  of  that  Max 
well  money,"  said  Lois,  with  sudden  fire. 
"I'll  tell  you  that  much,  once  for  all!" 
Her  eyes  fairly  gleamed  in  her  delicate, 
burning  face. 

"Why,  you  scare  me!  What  is  the  mat 
ter?"  cried  Flora. 

Lois  took  a  stitch.     "  Nothing,'  said  she. 

"You'd  ought  to  have  the  money,  of 
course,"  said  Flora,  in  a  bewildered  way. 
"Who  else  would  have  it?" 

"  I  don't  know, "  said  Lois.  "  You  are  the 
one  that  ought  to  have  it." 

Flora  laughed.  "  Land,  I  don't  want  it!  " 
said  she.  "  George  earns  plenty  for  us  to 
live  on.  She's  your  own  aunt,  and  of  course 
15 


226  JANE    FIELD 

she'll  have  to  leave  it  to  you,  if  she  does 
act  so  miserly  with  it  now.  There,  I  know 
she's  your  aunt,  Lois,  and  I  don't  suppose 
I  ought  to  speak  so,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
After  all,  it  don't  make  much  difference, 
or  it  needn't,  whether  you  have  it  or  not. 
I've  begun  to  think  money  is  the  very  least 
part  of  anything  in  this  world,  and  I  want 
you  to  be  looking  out  for  something  else, 
too,  Lois." 

"  I  can't  look  out  for  money,  or  something 
else,  either.  You  don't  know,"  said  Lois, 
in  a  pitiful  voice. 

There  came  a  flash,  and  then  a  great  crash 
of  thunder.  The  tempest  was  about  to  break. 

Flora  started  up  abruptly.  "  I  must  run," 
she  shouted  through  a  sudden  gust  of  wind. 
"Good-by." 

Flora  sped  out  of  the  yard.  Her  blue 
dress,  lashing  around  her  feet,  changed  color 
in  the  ghastly  light  of  the  storm.  Some  fly 
ing  leaves  struck  her  in  the  face.  At  the 
gate  a  cloud  of  dust  from  the  road  nearly 
blinded  her.  She  realized  in  a  bewildered 
fashion  that  there  were  three  women  on  the 
other  side  struggling  frantically  with  the 
latch. 


JANE    FIELD  227 

"Does  Mis'  Jane  Field  live  here?"  in 
quired  one  of  them,  breathlessly. 

"No,"  replied  Flora;  "that  isn't  her 
name." 

"She  don't?" 

"No,"  gasped  Flora,  her  head  lowered 
before  the  wind. 

"Well,  I  want  to  know,  ain't  this  the  old 
Maxwell  place? " 

"Yes,"  said  Flora. 

Some  great  drops  of  rain  began  to  fall; 
there  was  another  flash.  The  woman  strug 
gled  mightily,  and  prevailed  over  the  gate- 
latch.  She  pushed  it  open.  "  Well,  I  don't 
care,"  said  she,  "I'm  comin'  in,  whether  or 
no.  I  dunno  but  my  bonnet-strings  will 
spot,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  my  best 
clothes  soaked.  It's  mighty  funny  nobody 
knows  where  Mis'  Field  lives;  but  this  is 
the  old  Maxwell  house,  where  she  wrote 
Mandy  she  lived,  an'  I'm  goin'  in." 

Flora  stood  aside,  and  the  three  women 
entered  with  a  rush.  Lois,  standing  near 
the  door  front,  saw  them  coming  through 
the  greenish-yellow  gloom,  their  three  black 
figures  scudding  before  the  wind  like  black- 
sailed  ships. 

"Land    sakes!  "  shrieked  out  Mrs.   Bab- 


228  JANE    FIELD 

cock,  "  there's  Lois  now !  Lois,  how  are  you  ? 
I'd  like  to  know  what  that  girl  we  met  at 
the  gate  meant  telling  us  they  didn't  live 
here.  Why,  Lois  Field,  how  do  you  do? 
Where's  your  mother?  I  guess  we'd  better 
step  right  in,  an'  not  stop  to  talk.  It's  an 
awful  tempest.  I'm  dreadful  afraid  my  bon 
net  trimmin'  will  spot." 

They  all  scurried  up  the  steps  and  into 
the  house.  Then  the  women  turned  and 
kissed  Lois,  and  raised  a  little  clamor  of 
delight  over  her.  She  stood  panting.  She 
did  not  ask  them  into  the  sitting-room. 

CHer  head  whirled.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
;he  en&'of  everything  had  come. 

But  Mrs.  Babcock  turned  toward  the  sit 
ting-room  door.  She  had  pulled  off  her 
bonnet,  and  was  wiping  it  anxiously  with 
her  handkerchief.  "This  is  the  way,  ain't 
it?"  she  said. 

Lois  followed  them  in  helplessly.  The 
room  was  dark  as  night,  for  the  shutters  were 
closed.  Mrs.  Babcock  flung  one  open  per 
emptorily. 

"We'll  break  our  necks  here,  if  we  don't 
have  some  light,"  she  said.  The  hail  began 
to  rattle  on  the  window-panes. 


JANE    FIELD  22p 

"  It's  hailin' !  "  the  women  chorussed. 

"Are  your  windows  all  shut?"  Mrs.  Bab- 
cock  demanded  of  Lois. 

And  the  girl  said,  in  a  dazed  way,  that  the 
bedroom  windows  were  open,  and  then  went 
mechanically  to  shut  them. 

"Shut  the  blinds,  too!"  screamed  Mrs. 
Babcock.  "The  hail's  comin'  in  this  side 
terrible  heavy.  I'm  afraid  it'll  break  the 
glass."  Mrs.  Babcock  herself,  her  face 
screwed  tightly  against  an  onslaught  of  wind 
and  hail,  shut  the  blinds,  and  the  room  was 
again  plunged  in  darkness.  "  We'll  have 
to  stan'  it,"  said  she.  "Mis'  Field  don't 
want  her  windows  all  broke  in.  That's 
dreadful  sharp." 

Thunder  shook  the  house  like  an  explo 
sion.  The  women  looked  at  each  other  with 
awed  faces. 

"Where  is  your  mother?  Why  don't  she 
come  in  here?"  Mrs.  Babcock  asked  excit 
edly  of  Lois  returning  from  the  bedroom. 

"She's  gone  berrying,"  replied  Lois, 
feebly.  She  sank  into  a  chair. 

"Gone  berryin'!"  screamed  Mrs.  Bab 
cock,  and  the  other  women  echoed  her. 

"Yes'm." 


230  JANE    FIELD 

"When  did  she  go?" 

"Right  after  dinner." 

"  Right  after  dinner,  an'  she  ain't  got 
home  yet!  Out  in  this  awful  tempest! 
Well,  she'll  be  killed.  You'll  never  see  her 
again,  that's  all.  A  berry  pasture  is  the  most 
dangerous  place  in  creation  in  a  thunder- 
shower.  Out  berryin'  in  all  this  hail  an' 
thunder  an'  lightnin' !  " 

Mrs.  Green  pressed  close  up  to  Lois. 
"Ain't  you  any  idea  where  she's  gone?" 
said  she.  "  If  you  have,  I'll  jest  slip  off  my 
dress  skirt,  an'  you  give  me  an  old  shawl, 
an'  I'll  go  with  you  an'  see  if  we  can't  find 
her." 

"I'll  go,  too,"  cried  Amanda.  "Don't 
you  know  which  way  they  went,  Lois?" 

Just  then  the  south  side-door  slammed 
sharply. 

"She's  come,"  said  Lois,  in  a  strained 
voice. 

"Well,  I'm  thankful!"  cried  Mrs. 
Green.  "Hadn't  you  better  run  out  an' 
help  her  off  with  her  wet  things,  Lois?" 

But  the  sitting-room  door  opened,  and 
Mrs.  Field  stood  there,  a  tall  black  shadow 
hardly  shaped  out  from  the  gloom.  The 


JANE    FIELD  231 

women  all  arose  and  hurried  toward  her. 
There  was  a  shrill  flurry  of  greeting.  Mrs. 
Field's  voice  arose  high  and  terrified  above 
it. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  cried  out.  "Who's 
here  ? " 

"  Why,  your  old  neighbors,  Mrs.  Field. 
Don't  you  know  us — Mandy  an'  Mis'  Green 
an'  Mis'  Babcock  ?  We  come  down  on  an 
excursion  ticket  to  Boston — only  three  dol 
lars  an'  sixty  cents — an'  we  thought  we'd 
surprise  you." 

"Ain't  you  dreadful  wet,  Mis'  Field?" 
interposed  Mrs.  Green's  solicitous  voice. 

"  You'd  better  go  and  change  your  dress," 
said  Amanda. 

"When  did  you  come?"  said  Mrs.  Field. 

"Jest  now.  For  the  land  sakes,  Mis' 
Field,  your  dress  is  soppin'  wet!  Do  go  an' 
change  it,  or  you'll  catch  your  death  of 
cold." 

Mrs.  Field  did  not  stir.  The  hail  pelted 
on  the  windows.  "  Now,  you  go  right  along 
an'  change  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Babcock. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Field  vaguely,  "  meb- 
be  I'd  better."  She  fumbled  her  way  un 
steadily  toward  her  bedroom  door. 


232  JANE    FIELD. 

"  You  go  help  her;  it's  dark  as  a  pocket," 
said  Mrs.  Babcock  imperatively  to  Lois;  and 
the  girl  followed  her  mother. 

"They  act  dreadful  queer,  seems  to  me," 
whispered  Mrs.  Babcock,  when  the  bedroom 
door  was  closed. 

"I  guess  it's  jest  because  they're  so  sur 
prised  to  see  us,"  Mrs.  Green  whispered 
back. 

"Well,  if  I  ain't  wanted,  I  can  go  back  to 
where  I  come  from,  if  I  do  have  to  throw 
the  money  away,"  Mrs.  Babcock  said,  almost 
aloud.  "  I  think  they  act  queer,  both  on 
'em.  I  should  think  they  might  seem  a  lit 
tle  mite  more  pleased  to  see  three  old  neigh 
bors  so." 

"  Mebbe  it's  the  thunder-shower  that's 
kind  of  dazed  'em,"  said  Amanda.  She 
herself  was  much  afraid  of  a  thunder-shower. 
She  had  her  feet  well  drawn  up,  and  her 
hand  over  her  eyes. 

"It's  a  mercy  Mis'  Field  wa'n't  killed 
out  in  it,"  said  Mrs.  Green. 

"  I  don't  see  what  in  creation  she  stayed 
out  so  in  it  for,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Babcock. 
"She  must  have  seen  the  cloud  comin'  up. 
This  is  a  pretty  big  house,  ain't  it?  An'  I 


JANE    FIELD  233 

should  think  it  was  furnished  nice,  near's 
I  can  see,  but  it's  terrible  old-fashioned." 

Amanda  huddled  up  in  her  chair,  looked 
warily  at  the  strange  shadows  in  this  un 
familiar  room,  and  wished  she  were  at  home. 

The  storm  increased  rather  than  dimin 
ished.  When  Mrs.  Field  and  Lois  re 
turned,  all  the  women,  at  Mrs.  Babcock's 
order,  drew  their  chairs  close  together  in 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

"I've  always  heard  that  was  the  safest 
place, "  said  she.  "  That  was  the  way  old  Dr. 
Barnes  always  used  to  do.  He  had  thirteen 
children;  nine  of  'em  was  girls.  When 
ever  he  saw  a  thunder-shower  comin'  up,  he 
used  to  make  Mis'  Barnes  an'  the  children 
go  into  the  parlor,  an'  then  they'd  all  set 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  an'  he'd  offer 
prayer.  He  used  to  say  he'd  do  his  part  an' 
get  in  the  safest  place  he  knew  of,  an'  then 
ask  the  Lord  to  help  him.  Mandy  Pratt!  " 

"What  say,  Mis'  Babcock  ? "  returned 
Amanda,  trembling. 

"  Have  you  got  your  hoop-skirt  on  ?  " 

Amanda  sprang  up.  "  Yes,  I  have.  I 
forgot  it!  " 

"For  the    land  sakes!      I    should   think 


234  JANE    FIELD 

you'd  thought  of  that,  scared  as  you  pretend 
to  be  in  a  thunder-shower.  Do  go  in  the 
bedroom  an'  drop  it  off  this  minute!  Lois, 
you  go  with  her." 

While  Amanda  and  Lois  were  gone  there 
was  a  slight  lull  in  the  storm. 

"  I  guess  it's  kind  of  lettin'  up,"  said  Mrs. 
Babcock.  "  This  is  a  nice  house  you've  got 
here,  ain't  it,  Mis'  Field?" 

"Yes,  'tis,"  replied  Jane  Field. 

"  I  s'pose  there  was  a  good  deal  of  nice 
furniture  in  it,wa'n't  there?" 

"Considerable." 

"Was  there  nice  beddin'?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  s'pose  there  was  plenty  of  table-cloths 
an'  such  things  ?  Have  you  bought  any  new 
furniture,  Mis'  Field?" 

"No,  I  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Field.  She 
moved  her  chair  a  little  to  make  room  for 
Lois  and  Amanda  when  they  returned.  Lois 
sat  next  her  mother. 

"I  didn't  know  but  you  had.  I  thought 
mebbe  the  furniture  was  kind  of  old-fash 
ioned.  Have  you — oh,  ain't  it  awful?" 

The  storm  had  gathered  itself  like  an  an 
imal  for  a  fiercer  onset.  The  room  was 


JANE    FIELD  ^235 


lit  up  with  a  wild  play  of  blue  fire.  The 
thunder  crashed  closely  in  its  wake. 

"Oh,  we  hadn't  ought  to  talk  of  anything 
but  the  mercy  of  the  Lord  an'  our  sins!" 
wailed  Mrs.  Babcock.  "  Don't  let's  talk  of 
anything  else.  That  struck  somewheres 
near.  There's  no  knowin'  where  it'll  come 
next.  I  never  see  such  a  shower.  We  don't 
have  any  like  it  in  Green  River.  Oh,  I 
hope  we're  all  prepared!  " 

"That's  the  principal  thing,"  said  Mrs. 
Green,  in  a  solemn  trembling  voice. 

Amanda  said  nothing.  She  thought  of 
her  will;  a  vision  of  the  nicely  ordered 
rooms  she  had  left  seemed  to  show  out  before 
her  in  the  flare  of  the  lightning;  in  spite  of 
her  terror  it  was  a  comfort  to  her. 

"We'd  ought  to  be  thankful  in  a  time  like 
this  that  we  ain't  any  of  us  got  any  great 
wickedness  on  our  consciences,"  said  Mrs. 
Babcock.  "  It  must  be  terrible  for  them  that 
have,  thinkin'  they  may  die  any  minute 
when  the  next  flash  comes.  I  don't  envy 
'em." 

"It  must  be  terrible,"  assented  Mrs. 
Green,  like  an  amen. 

"  It's  bad  enough  with  the  sins  we've  got 


236  JANE    FIELD 

on  all  our  minds,  the  best  of  us,"  continued 
Mrs.  Babcock.  "  Think  how  them  that's 
broken  God's  commandments  an'  committed 
murders  an'  robberies  must  feel.  I  shouldn't 
think  they  could  stan'  it,  unless  they  burst 
right  out  an'  confessed  to  everybody — should 
you,  Mis'  Field? " 

"  I  guess  so,"  said  Mrs.  Field,  in  a  hard 
voice. 

Mrs.  Babcock  said  no  more;  somehow 
she  and  the  others  felt  repelled.  They 
all  sat  in  silence  except  for  awed  ejacula 
tions  when  now  and  then  came  a  louder 
crash  of  thunder.  All  at  once,  after  a 
sharp  flash,  there  was  a  wild  clamor  in  the 
street;  a  bell  clanged  out. 

"It's  struck!  it's  struck!  "  shrieked  Mrs. 
Babcock. 

"Oh,  it  ain't  this  house,  is  it?"  Amanda 
wailed. 

They  all  rushed  to  the  windows  and  flung 
open  the  blinds;  a  red  glare  filled  the  room; 
a  large  barn  nearly  opposite  was^.^on_fire. 
They  clutched  each  other,  and  watched  the 
red  gush  of  flame.  The  barn  burned  as  if 
lighted  at  every  corner. 

"Are  there  any  cows  or  horses  in   it?" 


JANE    FIELD  237 

panted  Mrs.  Babcock.     "  Oh,  ain't  it  dread 
ful  ?     Are  there  any,  Mis'  Field?" 

"I  dunno, "  said  Mrs.  Field. 

She  stood  like  a  grim  statue,  the  red  light 
of  the  fire  in  her  face.  Lois  was  sobbing. 
Mrs.  Green  had  put  an  arm  around  her. 

"Don't,  Lois,  don't,"  she  kept  saying,  in 
a  solemn,  agitated  voice.      "The   Lord  will!/ 
overrule  it  all;  it  is  He  speakin'  in  it." 

The  women  watched  while  the  street  filled 
with  people,  and  the  barn  burned  down. 
It  did  not  take  long.  The  storm  began  to 
lull  rapidly.  The  thunder  came  at  long 
intervals,  and  the  hail  turned  into  a  gentle 
rain.  Finally  Mrs.  Field  went  out  into  the 
kitchen  to  prepare  supper,  and  Lois  followed 
her. 

"I  never  see  anything  like  the  way  she 
acts,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock  cautiously. 

"  She  always  was  kind  of  quiet,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Green. 

"Quiet!     She  acts  as  if  she'd  had  thunder   ' 
an'  lightnin'  an'  hail  an'  barns  burnt  down 
every  day  since  she's  been  here.      I  never   | 
see  anybody  act  so  queer." 

"I  'most  wish  I'd  stayed  to  home,"  said 
Amanda. 


238  JANE    FIELD 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  be  backin'  out  the 
minute  I'd  got  here,  if  I  was  you,"  returned 
Mrs.  Babcock  sharply.  "  It's  comin' 
cooler,  that's  one  thing,  an'  you  won't  need 
that  white  sacque.  I  should  think  you'd 
feel  kinder  glad  of  it,  for  them  shoulder 
seams  did  look  pretty  long  to  what  they 
wear  'em.  An'  I  dare  say  folks  here  are 
pretty  dressy.  I  declare  I  shall  be  kinder 
glad  when  supper's  ready.  I  feel  real  faint 
to  my  stomach,  as  if  I'd  like  somethin' 
hearty.  I  should  have  gone  into  one  of 
them  places  in  Boston  if  things  hadn't  been 
so  awful  dear." 

But  when  Mrs.  Field  finally  called  them 
out  to  partake  of  the  meal  which  she  had 
prepared,  there  was  little  to  satisfy  an  eager 
appetite.  Nothing  but  the  berries  for  which 
she  had  toiled  so  hard,  a  few  thin  slices  of 
bread,  no  butter,  and  no  tea,  so  little  sugar 
in  the  bowl  that  the  guests  sprinkled  it 
sparingly  on  their  berries. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  'tis,"  Mrs.  Babcock 
whispered  when  they  were  upstairs  in  their 
chambers  that  night,  "  Mis'  Field  has  grown 
tight  since  she  got  all  that  money.  Some 
times  it  does  work  that  way.  I  believe  we 


JANE    FIELD  239 

should  starve  to  death  if  we  stayed  here  long. 
If  it  wa'n't  for  gittin'  my  money's  worth,  I 
should  be  for  goin'  home  to-morrow.  No 
butter  an'  no  tea  after  we've  come  that  long 
journey.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  "n 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  the  butter 
and  the  tea,"  rejoined  Amanda,  "but  I 
'most  feel  as  if  I'd  better  go  home  to-mor 
row." 

"  If,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock,  "  you  want  to  go 
home  instead  of  gittin'  the  good  of  that 
excursion  ticket,  that  you  can  stay  a  week 
on,  you  can,  Amanda  Pratt.  I'm  goin'  to 
stay  now,  if  it  kills  me." 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE  three  women  from  Green  River  had 
been  six  days  in  Elliot,  they  were  going  to 
leave  the  next  morning,  and  Mrs.  Field's 
secret  had  not  been  discovered.  Nothing 
but  her  ill  favor  in  the  village  had  saved 
her.  Nobody  except  Mrs.  Jane  Maxwell 
had  come  to  call.  Mrs.  Babcock  talked  and 
wondered  about  it  a  great  deal  to  Mrs. 
Green  and  Amanda. 

"  It's  mighty  queer,  seems  to  me,  that 
there  ain't  a  soul  but  that  one  old  woman 
set  foot  inside  this  house  since  we've  been 
here,"  said  she.  "  It  don't  look  to  me  as  if 
folks  here  thought  much  of  Mis'  Field.  I 
know  one  thing:  there  couldn't  three  strange 
ladies  come  visitin'  to  Green  River  without 
I  should  feel  as  if  I'd  ought  to  go  an'  call 
an'  find  out  who  they  was,  an'  pay  'em  a 
little  attention,  if  I  thought  anything  at  all 
of  the  folks  they  was  visitin'.  There's  con- 


JANE    FIELD  241 

siderable  more  dress  here,  but  I  guess,  on 
the  whole,  it  ain't  any  better  a  place  to  live 
in  than  Green  River." 

The  three  women  had  not  had  a  very 
lively  or  pleasant  visit  in  Elliot.  Jane 
Field,  full  of  grim  defiance  of  her  own  guilt 
and  misery  and  of  them,  was  not  a  success 
ful  entertainer  of  guests.  She  fed  them  as 
best  she  could  with  her  scanty  resources, 
and  after  her  house-work  was  done,  took 
her  knitting-work  and  sat  with  them  in  her 
gloomy  sitting-room,  while  they  also  kept 
busy  at  the  little  pieces  of  handiwork  they 
had  brought  with  them. 

They  talked  desperately  of  Green  River 
and  the  people  there;  they  told  Mrs.  Field 
of  this  one  and  that  one  whom  she  had 
known,  and  in  whom  she  had  been  inter 
ested;  but  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
everybody  and  everything  connected  with 
her  old  life. 

"  Ida  Starr  is  goin'  to  marry  the  minister 
in  October,"  Mrs.  Babcock  had  said  the  day 
but  one  after  their  arrival.  "You  know 
there  was  some  talk  about  it  before  you 
went  away,  Mis'  Field.  You  remember 
hearin'  about  it,  don't  you?" 
16 


242  JANE    FIELD 

"I  guess  I  don't  remember  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Field. 

"Don't  remember  it?  Why,  Mis'  Field, 
I  should  think  you'd  remember  that!  It 
was  town's  talk  how  she  followed  him  up. 
Well,  she's  got  him,  an'  she's  been  teachin' 
— you  know  she  had  Lois's  school — to  get 
money  for  her  weddin'  outfit.  They  say  she's 
got  a  brown  silk  dress  to  be  married  in,  an'  a 
new  black  silk  one  too.  Should  you  think 
the  Starrs  could  afford  any  such  outlay  ?  " 

"I  dunno    as    I  should,"    replied    Mrs. 
Field. 

When  she  went  out  of  the  room  presently, 
Mrs.  Babcock  turned  to  the  others.  "  She 
didn't  act  as  if  she  cared  no  more  about  it 
than  nothin'  at  all,"  she  said  indignantly. 
"  She  don't  act  to  me  as  if  she  had  any  more 
interest  in  Green  River  than  Jerusalem,  nor 
the  folks  that  live  there.  I  keep  thinkin'  I 
won't  tell  her  another  thing  about  it.  I 
never  see  anybody  so  changed  as  she  is." 

"  Mebbe  she  ain't  well,"  said  Mrs.  Green. 
"I  think  she  looks  awfully.  She's  as  thin 
as  a  rail,  an*  she  ain't  a  mite  of  color. 
Lois  looks  better." 

"  Mis'  Field  never  did  have  any  flesh  on 


JANE    FIELD  243 

her  bones,"  Mrs.  Babcock  rejoined;  "  an'  as 
for  Lois,  nothin'  ever  did  ail  her  but  spring 
weather  an'  fussin'.  I  guess  Mis'  Field's 
well  enough,  but  havin'  all  this  property 
left  her  has  made  a  different  woman  of  her. 
I've  seen  people's  noses  teeter  up  in  the  air 
when  their  purses  got  heavy  before  now." 

"It  ain't  that,"  said  Amanda. 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Babcock 
sharply. 

"I  dunno.  I  know  one  thing:  home's 
the  best  place  for  everybody  if  they've  got 
one." 

"I  don't  think  'tis  always.  I  b'lieve 
when  you're  off  on  an  excursion  ticket  in 
makin'  the  best  of  things,  for  my  part.  To 
morrow's  Sunday,  an'  I  expect  to  enjoy  the 
meetin'  an'  seein'  the  folks.  I  shall  be 
kinder  glad,  for  my  part,  not  to  see  exactly 
the  same  old  bonnets  an'  made-over  silks 
that  I  see  every  Sunday  to  home.  I  like  a 
change  sometimes.  It  puts  new  ideas  into 
your  head,  an'  I  feel  as  if  I  had  spunk 
enough  to  stan'  it." 

On  Sunday  Mrs.  Field  led  her  procession 
of  guests  into  church;  and  they,  in  their 
best  black  gowns  and  bonnets,  sat  listening 


244  JANE    FIELD 

to    the    sermon,    and    looking  about  with 
decorous  and  furtive  curiosity. 

Mrs.  Babcock  had  a  handsome  fan  with 
spangles  on  it,  and  she  fanned  herself  airily, 
lifting  her  head  up  with  the  innocent  im 
portance  of  a  stranger. 

She  had  quite  a  fine  bonnet,  and  a  new 
mantle  with  some  beaded  fringe  on  it;  when 
she  stirred,  it  tinkled.  She  looked  around 
and  did  not  see  another  woman  with  one  as 
handsome.  It  was  the  gala  moment  of  her 
visit  to  Elliot.  Afterward  she  was  wont  to 
say  that  when  she  was  in  Elliot  she  did  not 
go  out  much,  nobody  came  to  the  house 
nor  anything,  but  she  went  to  meeting  and 
she  enjoyed  that. 

It  was  the  evening  following  that  Mrs. 
Jane    Maxwell    came.      Mrs.  Field,    sitting 
with  her  guests,  felt  a  strange  contraction 
of  her  heart  when  she  heard  the  door  open. 

"Who's  that  comin'?"  asked  Mrs.  Bab- 
cock. 

"I  guess  it's  old  Mr.  Maxwell's  brother 
Henry's  wife,"  replied  Mrs.  Field. 

She  arose.  Lois  went  quickly  and  softly 
out  of  the  other  door.  She  felt  sure  that 
exposure  was  near,  and  her  first  impulse  was 


JANE    FIELD  245 

to  be  out  of  sound  and  hearing  of  it.  She 
sat  there  in  the  dark  on  the  front  door-step 
awhile,  then  she  went  into  the  house.  Sit 
ting  there  in  doubt,  half  hearing  what  might 
be  dreadful  to  hear,  was  worse  than  cer 
tainty.  She  had  at  once  a  benumbing  terror 
and  a  fierce  desire  that  her  mother  should 
be  betrayed,  and  withal  a  sudden  impulse 
of  loyalty  toward  her,  a  feeling  that  she 
would  stand  by  her  when  everybody  else 
turned  against  her. 

She  crept  in  and  sat  down.  Mrs.  Max 
well  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Babcock  about  the 
state  of  the  church  in  Elliot.  It  was  won 
derful  that  this  call  was  made  without  ex 
posure,  but  it  was.  Twice  Mrs.  Maxwell 
called  Jane  Field  "Esther,"  but  nobody 
noticed  it  except  Amanda,  and  she  said 
nothing.  She  only  caught  her  breath  each 
time  with  a  little  gasp. 

Mrs.  Maxwell  addressed  herself  almost 
wholly  to  Mrs.  Babcock  concerning  her 
daughter,  her  daughter's  husband,  and  the 
people  of  Elliot.  Mrs.  Babcock  constantly 
bore  down  upon  her,  and  swerved  her  aside 
with  her  own  topics.  Indeed,  all  the  con 
versation  lay  between  these  two.  There 


246  JANE    FIELD 

was  a  curious  similarity  between  them. 
They  belonged  apparently  to  some  one  sub 
division  of  human  nature,  being  as  birds  of 
the  same  feather,  and  seemed  to  instinctively 
recognize  this  fact. 

They  were  at  once  attracted,  and  regarded 
each  other  with  a  kind  of  tentative  cordi 
ality,  which  might  later  become  antagonism, 
for  they  were  on  a  level  for  either  friendship 
or  enmity. 

Mrs.  Maxwell  made  a  long  call,  as  she  was 
accustomed  to  do.  She  was  a  frequent  visi 
tor,  generally  coming  in  the  evening,  and 
going  home  laden  with  spoil,  creeping  from 
cover  to  cover  like  a  cat.  She  was  afraid 
to  have  her  daughter  and  nephew  know  of 
all  the  booty  she  obtained.  She  had  many 
things  snugly  tucked  away  in  bureau  drawers 
and  the  depths  of  closets  which  she  had  car 
ried  home  under  her  shawl  by  night.  Jane 
Field  was  only  too  glad  to  give  her  all  for 
which  she  asked  or  hinted. 

To-night,  as  Mrs.  Maxwell  took  leave  of 
the  three  strange  women  standing  in  a  prim 
row,  she  gave  a  meaning  nod  to  Mrs.  Field, 
who  followed  her  to  the  door. 

"I   was   thinkin'    about    that   old    glass 


JANE    FIELD  247 

preserve-dish,"  she  whispered.  "I  don't 
s'pose  it's  worth  much,  but  if  you  don't  use 
it  ever,  I  s'pose  I  might  as  well  have  it. 
Flora  has  considerable  company  now,  an' 
ours  ain't  a  very  good  size." 

When  Mrs.  Maxwell  had  gone  out  of  the 
yard  with  the  heavy  cut-glass  dish  pressed 
firmly  against  her  side  under  her  black  silk 
shawl,  Jane  Field  felt  like  one  who  had  had 
a  reprieve  from  instant  execution,  although 
she  had  already  suffered  the  slow  torture. 
She  went  back  to  her  guests  as  steady-faced 
as  ever.  She  was  quite  sure  none  of  them 
had  noticed  Mrs.  Maxwell's  calling  her 
Esther,  but  her  eyes  were  like  a  wary  ani 
mal's  as  she  entered  the  room,  although  not 
a  line  in  her  long  pale  face  was  unsteady. 

The  time  went  on  and  nobody  said, 
"Why  did  she  call  you  Esther  instead  of 
Jane?" 

They  seemed  as  usual.  Mrs.  Babcock 
questioned  her  sharply  about  Mrs.  Maxwell 
— how  much  property  she  had  and  if  her 
daughter  had  married  well.  Amanda  never 
looked  in  her  face,  and  said  nothing,  but 
she  was  often  quiet  and  engrossed  in  a  new 
tidy  she  was  knitting. 


248  JANE    FIELD 

"They  don't  suspect,"  Mrs.  Field  said  to 
herself. 

They  were  going  home  the  next  day  but 
one;  she  went  to  bed  nearly  as  secure  as 
she  had  been  for  the  last  three  months. 
Mrs.  Maxwell  was  to  be  busy  the  next  day 
— she  had  spoken  of  making  pear  sauce — 
she  would  not  be  in  again.  The  danger  of 
exposure  from  the  coming  of  these  three 
women  to  Elliot  was  probably  past.  But 
Jane  Field  lay  awake  all  night.  Suddenly 
at  dawn  she  formed  a  plan;  her  mind  was 
settled.  There  was  seemingly  no  struggle. 
It  was  to  her  as  if  she  turned  a  corner,  once 
turned  there  was  no  other  way,  and  no  ques 
tion  about  it.  When  it  was  time,  she  got  up, 
dressed  herself,  and  went  about  the  house, 
as  usual.  There  was  no  difference  in  her 
look  or  manner,  but  all  the  morning  Lois 
kept  glancing  at  her  in  a  startled,  half-in 
voluntary  way;  then  she  would  look  away 
again,  seeing  nothing  to  warrant  it,  but  ere 
long  her  eyes  turned  again  toward  her 
mother's  face.  It  was  as  if  she  had  a  subtle 
consciousness  of  something  there  which  was 
beyond  vision,  and  to  which  her  vision  gave 
the  lie.  When  she  looked  away  she  saw  it 


JANE    FIELD  249 

again,  but  it  vanished  when  her  eyes  were 
turned,  like  a  black  robe  through  a  door. 

After  dinner,  when  the  dishes  were  cleared 
away,  the  three  visitors  sat  as  usual  in  com 
pany  state  with  their  needle-work.  Aman 
da's  bag  upstairs  was  all  neatly  packed. 
She  would  need  to  unpack  it  again  that 
night,  but  it  was  a  comfort  to  her.  She  had 
scarcely  spoken  all  day;  her  thin  mouth 
had  a  set  look. 

"Mandy's  gettin'  so  homesick  she  can't 
speak,"  said  Mrs.  Babcock.  "She  can't 
hardly  wait  till  to-morrow  to  start,  can  you, 
Mandy  ?" 

"No,  I  can't,"  replied  Amanda. 

Mrs.  Field  was  in  her  bedroom  changing 
her  dress  when  Lois  put  on  her  hat  and  went 
down  the  street  with  some  finished  work 
for  the  dressmaker  for  whom  she  sewed. 

"Where  you  goin',  Lois?"  asked  Mrs. 
Babcock,  when  she  came  through  the  room 
with  her  hat  on. 

"I'm  going  out  a  little  ways,"  answered 
Lois  evasively.  She  had  tried  to  keep  the 
fact  of  her  sewing  for  a  living  from  the 
Green  River  women.  She  knew  how  people 
in  Elliot  talked  about  it,  and  estranged  as 


250  JANE    FIELD 

she  was  from  her  mother,  she  wanted  no 
more  reflections  cast  upon  her. 

But  Mrs.  Babcock  peeped  out  of  a  window 
as  Lois  went  down  the  path.  "  She's  got  a 
bundle,"  she  whispered.  "I  tell  you  what 
'tis,  I  suspect  that  girl  is  sewin'  for  some 
body  to  earn  money.  I  should  think  her 
mother  would  be  ashamed  of  herself." 

Lois  had  a  half  mile  to  walk,  and  she 
stayed  awhile  at  the  dressmaker's  to  sew. 
When  she  started  homeward  it  was  nearly 
three  o'clock. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon,  the  house 
yards  were  full  of  the  late  summer  flowers, 
the  fields  were  white  and  gold  with  arnica 
and  wild-carrot  instead  of  buttercups  and 
daisies,  the  blackberries  were  ripe  along  the 
road-side,  and  there  were  sturdy  thickets  of 
weeds  picked  out  with  golden  buttons  of 
tansy  over  the  stone  walls.  Lois  stepped 
along  lightly.  She  did  not  look  like  the 
same  girl  of  three  months  ago.  It  was 
strange  that  in  spite  of  all  her  terrible  dis 
tress  of  mind  and  hard  struggles  since  she 
came  to  Elliot  it  should  have  been  so,  but 
it  was.  Every  life  has  its  own  conditions, 
although  some  are  poisons.  Whether  it  had 


JANE    FIELD  251 

been  as  Mrs.  Babcock  thought,  that  the  girl 
had  been  afflicted  with  no  real  malady,  only 
the  languor  of  the  spring,  intensified  and 
fostered  in  some  subtle  fashion  by  her 
mother's  anxiety,  or  whether  it  had  been 
the  purer  air  of  Elliot  that  had  brought 
about  the  change,  to  whatever  it  might  have 
been  due,  she  was  certainly  better. 

Lois  had  on  an  old  pink  muslin  dress  that 
she  had  worn  many  a  summer,  indeed  the 
tucks  had  been  let  down  to  accord  with  her 
growth,  and  showed  in  bars  of  brighter  pink 
around  the  skirt.  But  the  color  of  the  dress 
became  her  well,  her  young  shoulders  filled 
out  the  thin  fabric  with  sweet  curves  that 
overcame  the  old  fashion  of  its  make; 
her  slender  arms  showed  through  the  sleeves; 
and  her  small  fair  face  was  set  in  a  muslin 
frill  like  a  pink  corolla.  She  had  to  pass 
the  cemetery  on  her  way  home.  As  she 
came  in  sight  of  its  white  shafts,  and  head 
stones  gleaming  out  from  its  dark  foliage, 
she  met  Francis  Arms.  She  started  when 
she  saw  him,  and  said,  "  Good-afternoon  " 
nervously;  then  was  passing  on,  but  he 
stopped  her. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 


252  JANE    FIELD 

"  I  was  going  home." 

"  See  here — I  don't  know  as  you  want  to 
— but — do  you  remember  how  we  went  to 
walk  in  the  cemetery  that  first  day  after  you 
came  ? " 

Lois  nodded.  He  could  see  only  the  tip 
of  her  chin  under  her  broad  hat. 

"Suppose — if  you  haven't  anything  else 
to  do — if  you  are  not  busy — that  we  go  in 
there  now  a  little  ways?"  said  Francis. 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  not,"  replied  Lois,  in  a 
trembling  voice. 

"It's  real  cool  in  there." 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  better  not." 

"Well,"  said  Francis,  "of  course  I  won't 
tease  you  if  you  don't  want  to." 

He  tried  to  make  his  tone  quite  uncon 
cerned  and  to  smile.  He  was  passing  on, 
but  Lois  spoke. 

"I  might  go  in  there  just  a  minute,"  she 
said. 

Francis  turned  quickly,  his  face  lighted 
up.  They  walked  along  together  to  the  cem 
etery  gate;  he  opened  it  and  they  entered 
and  passed  slowly  down  the  drive-way. 

The  yard  was  largely  overhung  by  ever 
green  trees,  which  held  in  their  boughs  cool 


JANE    FIELD  253 

masses  of  blue  gloom.  It  was  cool  there, 
as  Francis  had  said,  although  it  was  quite 
a  warm  day.  The  flowers  on  the  sunny 
graves  hung  low,  unless  they  had  been 
freshly  tended,  when  they  stood  erect  in 
dark  circles.  Some  of  the  old  uncared-for 
graves  were  covered  with  rank  growths  of 
grass  and  weeds,  which  seemed  fairly  in 
stinct  with  merry  life  this  summer  afternoon. 
Crickets  and  cicadas  thrilled  through  them  ; 
now  and  then  a  bird  flew  up.  It_wasjik^_a 
resuj^gckipn  stir, 

"Let's  go  where  we  went  that  first  day," 
said  Francis;  "it's  always  pleasant  there 
on  the  bank." 

Lois  followed  him  without  a  word.  They 
sat  down  on  the  grass  at  the  edge  of  the  ter 
race,  and  a  cool  breeze  came  in  their  faces 
from  over  the  great  hollow  of  the  meadows 
below.  The  grass  on  them  had  been  cut 
short,  and  now  had  dried  and  turned  a  rosy 
color  in  the  sun.  The  two  kept  their  eyes 
turned  away  from  each  other,  and  looked 
down  into  the  meadow  as  into  the  rosy  hol 
low  of  a  cup ;  but  they  seemed  to  see  each 
other's  faces  there. 

"It's  cool  here,  isn't  it?"  said  Francis. 


254  JANE    FIELD 

"Real  cool." 

"  It  always  is  on  the  hottest  day.  There 
is  always  a  breeze  here,  if  there  isn't  any 
where  else." 

Francis's  words  were  casual,  but  his  voice 
was  unsteady  with  a  tender  tone  that  seemed 
to  overweight  it. 

Lois  seemed  to  hear  only  this  tone,  and 
not  the  words.  It  was  one  of  the  primitive 
tones  that  came  before  any  language  was 
made,  and  related  to  the  first  necessities  of 
man.  Suddenly  she  had  ears  for  that  only. 
She  did  not  say  anything.  Her  hands  were 
folded  in  her  lap  quietly,  but  her  fingers 
tingled. 

"Lois,"  Francis  began;  then  he  stopped. 

Lois  did  not  look  up. 

"See  here,  Lois,"  he  went  on,  "I  don't 
know  as  there  is  much  use  in  my  saying 
anything.  You've  hardly  noticed  me  late 
ly.  There  was  one  spell  when  I  thought 
maybe —  But —  Well,  I'm  going  to  ask 
you,  and  have  it  over  with  one  way  or  the 
other.  Lois,  do  you  think — well,  do  you 
feel  as  if  you  could  ever — marry  me  some 
time?" 

Lois  dropped  her  head  down  on  her  hands. 


JANE    FIELD  255 

"  Now  don't  you  go  to  feeling  bad  if  you 
can't,"  said  Francis.  "It  won't  be  your 
fault.  But  if  you'd  just  tell  me,  Lois." 

Lois  did  not  speak. 

"If  you'd  just  tell  me  one  way  or  the 
other,  Lois." 

"I  can't.  I  can't  anyway !"  cried  Lois 
then,  with  a  great  sob. 

"Well,  if  you  can't,  don't  cry,  little  girl. 
There's  nothing  to  cry  about.  I  can  stand 
it.  All  the  trouble  is,  it  does  seem  to  me 
that  I  could  take  care  of  you  better  than  any 
other  fellow  on  earth,  but  maybe  that's  my 
conceit,  and  you'll  find  somebody  else  that 
will  do  better  than  I.  Now  don't  cry." 
Francis  pulled  her  hat  off  gently,  and 
patted  her  head.  His  face  was  quite  white, 
but  he  tried  to  smile.  "  Don't  cry,  dear," 
he  said  again.  "  It  was  nothing  you  could 
help.  I  didn't  much  suppose  you  liked  me. 
There's  nothing  much  in  me  to  like.  I'm 
an  ordinary  kind  of  a  fellow." 

Francis  got  up  and  walked  off  a  little 
way. 

Lois  sobbed  harder.  Finally  she  stole  a 
glance  at  him  between  her  fingers.  She 
could  see  his  profile  quite  pale  and  stern  as 


256  JANE    FIELD 

he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  terrace.  She 
made  a  little  inarticulate  call,  and  he  turned 
quickly. 

"What  is  it,  Lois?"  he  asked,  coming 
toward  her. 

"I  didn't  say — I — didn't  like  you,"  she 
whispered  faintly. 

"Lois!" 

"I  didn't  say  so." 

"  Lois,  do  you?     Answer  me  quick." 

She  hid  her  face  again. 

"  Lois,  you  must  answer  me  now." 

"I  like  you  well  enough,  but  I  can't 
marry  you." 

"  Lois,  is  there  any  fellow  in  Green 
River  that  wants  you?  Is  that  the  reason  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  can't  ever  marry 
anybody,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  sud 
denly  quite  firm.  She  wiped  her  eyes. 

Francis  sat  down  beside  her.  "  O  Lois, 
you  do  love  me,  after  all  ?  " 

"I  can't  marry  you,"  said  she. 

"Why  not,  dear?" 

"  I  can't.     You  mustn't  ask  me  why." 

Francis  looked  down  at  her  half  laughing. 
"  Some  dreadful  obstacle  in  the  way?" 

She  nodded  solemnly. 


JANE    FIELD  257 

Francis  put  his  arm  around  her.  "  Oh,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  "don't  you  know  obstacles 
go  for  nothing  if  you  do  like  me,  after  all? 
Wait  a  little  and  you'll  find  out.  O  Lois, 
are  you  sure  you  do  like  me?  You  are  so 
pretty." 

"I  can't,"  repeated  Lois,  trembling. 

"  Suppose  this  obstacle  were  removed, 
dear,  you  would  then?" 

"  It  never  can  be." 

"But  if  it  were,  you  would?  Yes,  of 
course  you  would.  Then  I  shall  remove  it, 
you  depend  upon  it,  I  shall,  dear.  Lois,  I 
liked  you  the  minute  I  saw  you,  and,  it's 
terribly  conceited,  but  I  do  believe  you  liked 
me  a  little.  Dear,  if  it  ever  can  be,  I'll 
take  care  of  you  all  my  life." 

The  two  sat  there  together,  and  the  long 
summer  afternoon  passed  humming  and 
singing  with  bees  and  birds,  and  breathing 
sweetly  through  the  pine  branches.  They 
themselves  were  as  a  fixed  heart  of  love  in 
the  midst  of  it,  and  all  around  them  in  their 
graves  lay  the  dead  who  had  known  and 
gone  beyond  it  all,  but  nobody  could  tell 
if  they  had  forgotten. 
17 


CHAPTER  X. 

WHEN  Lois  left  home  that  afternoon  her 
mother  had  been  in  her  bedroom  changing 
her  dress.  When  she  came  out  she  had  on 
her  best  black  dress,  her  black  shawl  and 
gloves,  and  her  best  bonnet.  The  three 
women  stared  at  her.  She  stood  before  them 
a  second  without  speaking.  The  strange 
look,  for  which  Lois  had  watched  her  face, 
had  appeared. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Mis'  Field?" 
cried  Mrs.  Babcock.  "Where  be  ycfu  go 
ing?" 

"I'm  goin'  out  a  little  ways,"  replied 
Mrs.  Field.  Then  she  raised  her  voice 
suddenly.  "I've  got  something  to  say  to 
all  of  you  before  I  go,"  said  she.  "I've 
been  deceivin'  you,  and  everybody  here  in 
Elliot.  When  I  came  down  here,  they  all 
took  me  for  my  sister,  Esther  Maxwell,  and 
I  let  them  think  so.  They've  all  called  me 
Esther  Maxwell  here.  That's  how  I  got 
258 


JANE    FIELD  259 

the  money.  Old  Mr.  Maxwell  left  it  to  Flora 
Maxwell  if  my  sister  didn't  outlive  him.  I 
shouldn't  have  had  a  cent.  I  stole  it.  I 
thought  my  daughter  would  die  if  we  didn't 
have  it  an'  get  away  from  Green  River;  but 
that  wa'n't  any  excuse.  Edward  Maxwell 
had  that  fifteen  hundred  dollars  of  my  hus 
band's,  an'  I  never  had  a  cent  of  it;  but 
that  wa'n't  any  excuse.  I  thought  I'd  jest 
stay  here  an'  carry  it  out  till  I  got  the 
money  back;  but  that  wa'n't  any  excuse. 
I  ain't  spent  a  cent  of  the  money;  it's  all 
put  away  just  as  it  was  paid  in,  in  a  sugar- 
bowl  in  the  china  closet;  but  that  ain't  any 
excuse.  I  took  it  on  myself  to  do  justice 
instead  of  the  Lord,  an'  that  ain't  for  any 
human  bein'  to  do.  I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell. 
I'm  brought  up  short.  I  ain't  Esther  Max 
well!  "  Her  voice  rose  to  a  stern  shriek. 

The  three  women  stared  at  her,  then  at 
each  other.  Their  faces  were  white. 
Amanda  was  catching  her  breath  in  faint 
gasps.  Jane  Field  rushed  out  of  'the  room. 
The  door  closed  heavily  after  her. 

Three  wild,  pale  faces  huddled  together 
in  a  window  watched  her  out  of  the  yard. 
Mrs.  Babcock  called  weakly  after  her  to 


260  JANE    FIELD 

come  back,  but  she  kept  on.  She  went  out 
of  the  yard  and  down  the  street.  At  the 
first  house  she  stopped,  went  up  to  the  door 
and  rang  the  bell.  When  a  woman  answered 
her  ring,  she  looked  at  her  and  said,  "  I 
N/ain't  Esther  Maxwell!"  Then  she  turned 
and  went  down  the  walk  between  the  rows 
of  marigolds  and  asters,  and  the  woman 
stood  staring  after  her  for  a  minute,  then 
ran  in,  and  the  windows  filled  with  wonder 
ing  faces. 

Jane  Field  stopped  at  the  next  house 
with  the  same  message.  After  she  left  a 
woman  pelted  across  the  yard  in  a  panic  to 
compare  notes  with  her  neighbors.  She 
kept  on  down  the  street,  and  she  stopped  at 
every  door  and  said,  "I  ain't  Esther  Max 
well." 

Now  and  then  somebody  tried  to  delay  her 
to  question  her  and  obtain  an  explanation, 
but  she  broke  away.  There  was  about  her 
a  terrible  mental  impetus  which  intimidated. 
People  stood  instinctively  out  of  her  way, 
as  before  some  rushing  force  which  might 
overwhelm  them. 

Daniel  Tuxbury  followed  her  out  to  the 
street;  then  he  fell  back.  Mrs.  Jane  Max- 


'I  AIN'T  ESTHER  MAXWELL.'    HER  VOICE  AROSE 
IN  A  STERN  SHRIEK" 


JANE    FIELD  261 

well  caught  hold  of  her  dress,  but  she  let 
go,  and  leaned  trembling  over  her  iron  gate 
looking  after  the  relentless  black  figure 
speeding  to  the  next  door. 

She  went  on  and  on,  all  the  summer  after 
noon,  and  canvassed  the  little  village  with 
her  remorse  and  confession  of  crime.  Fi 
nally  the  four  words  which  she  said  at  the 
doors  seemed  almost  involuntary.  They 
became  her  one  natural  note,  the  expression 
of  her  whole  life.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
never  said  any  others.  At  last,  going  along 
the  street,  she  repeated  them  to  everybody 
she  met.  Some  she  had  told  before,  but 
she  did  not  know  it.  She  said  them  to  a 
little  girl  in  a  white  frock,  with  her  hair 
freshly  curled,  carrying  a  doll,  and  she  ran 
away  crying  with  fright.  She  said  them 
to  three  barefooted  boys  loping  along  in 
the  dust,  with  berry-pails,  and  they  laughed 
and  turned  around  and  mocked  her,  calling 
the  words  after  her.  When  she  went  up  the 
path  to  the  Maxwell  house,  she  said  them 
where  the  shadow  of  a  pine-tree  fell  darkly 
in  front  of  her  like  the  shadow  of  a  man. 
She  said  them  when  she  stood  before  the 
door  of  the  house  whose  hospitality  she  had 


262  JANE    FIELD 

usurped.  There  was  a  little  crowd  at  her 
heels,  but  she  did  not  notice  them  until  she 
was  entering  the  door.  Then  she  said  the 
words  over  to  them:  "I  ain't  Esther  Max 
well." 

She  entered  the  sitting-room,  the  people 
following.  There  were  her  three  old  friends 
and  neighbors,  the  minister  and  his  wife, 
Daniel  Tuxbury,  his  sister  and  her  daughter, 
Mrs.  Jane  Maxwell  and  her  daughter,  and 
her  own  Lois.  She  faced  them  all  and  said 
it  again:  "I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell." 

The  lawyer  jerked  himself  forward;  his 
face  was  twitching.  "This  woman's  mind 
is  affected,"  he  declared  with  loud  impor 
tance.  "She  is  Esther  Maxwell.  I  will 
swear  to  it  in  any  court.  I  recognize  her, 
and  I  never  forget  a  face." 

"  I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell,"  said  Jane  Field, 
in  her  voice  that  was  as  remorseless  and 
conclusive  as  fate. 

Lois  pressed  forward  and  clung  to  her. 

"Mother!"  she  moaned;  "mother!" 

Then  for  once  her  mother  varied  her  set 
speech.  "Lois  wa'n't  to  blame,"  she  said; 
"  I  want  you  to  know  it,  all  of  you.  Lois 
wa'n't  to  blame.  She  didn't  know  until 


JANE    FIELD  263 

after  I'd  done  it.  She  wanted  to  tell,  but  I 
told  her  they'd  put  me  in  prison.  Lois 
wa'n't  to  blame.  I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell." 

"O  mother,  don't,  don't!"  Lois  sobbed. 

She  hung  about  her  mother's  neck,  and 
pressed  her  lips  to  that  pale  wrinkled  face, 
whose  wrinkles  seemed  now  to  be  laid  in 
stone.  Not  a  muscle  of  Jane  Field's  face 
changed.  She  kept  repeating  at  intervals, 
in  precisely  the  same  tone,  her  terrible 
under-chord  to  all  the  excitement  about  her: 
"I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell." 

Some  of  the  women  were  crying.  Amanda 
Pratt  sat  sewing  fast,  with  her  mouth  set. 
She  clung  to  her  familiar  needle  as  if  it 
were  a  rope  to  save  her  from  destruction. 
Francis  Arms  had  come  in,  and  stood  close 
to  Lois  and  her  mother. 

Suddenly  Jane  Maxwell  spoke.  She  was 
pale,  and  her  head-dress  was  askew. 

"  I  call  this  pretty  work,"  said  she. 

Then  Mrs.  Babcock  faced  her.  "  I  should 
call  it  pretty  work  for  somebody  else  besides 
poor  Mis'  Field,"  she  cried.  "I'd  like- to 
know  what  business  your  folks  had  takin' 
her  money  an'  keepin'  it.  She  wa'n't  goin' 
to  take  any  more  than  belonged  to  her,  an' 


264  JANE    FIELD 

she  had  a  perfect  right  to,  accordin'  to  my 
way  of  thinkin'." 

Mrs.  Maxwell  gasped.  Flora  laid  her 
hand  on  her  arm  when  she  tried  to  speak 
again. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  tell  her  how  I've  been  with 
out  a  decent  dress,  an'  how  I've  been  luggin' 
my  own  things  out  of  this  house,  an'  now 
I've  got  to  lug  'em  all  back  again,"  she 
whispered  defiantly. 

"Mother,  you  keep  still,"  said  Flora. 

Mrs.  Green  went  across  the  room  and  put 
her  arm  around  Lois,  standing  by  her  mother. 
"Let's  you  an'  me  get  her  in  her  bedroom, 
an'  have  her  lay  down  on  the  bed,  an'  try 
an'  quiet  her,"  she  whispered.  "She's  all 
unstrung.  Mebbe  she'll  be  better." 

Mrs.  Field  at  once  turned  toward  her. 

"I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell,"  said  she. 

"O  Mis'  Field!  oh,  poor  woman!  it  ain't 
for  us  to  judge  you,"  returned  Mrs.  Green, 
in  her  tender,  inexpressibly  solemn  voice. 
"Come,  Lois." 

"Yes,  that'll  be  a  good  plan,"  chimed  in 
Mrs.  Babcock.  "  She'd  better  go  in  her 
bedroom  where  it's  quiet,  or  she'll  wind 


JANE    FIELD  265 

up  with  a  fever.  There's  too  many  folks 
here." 

"  I  wonder  if  some  of  my  currant  wine 
wouldn't  be  good  for  her?"  said  Mrs.  Jane 
Maxwell,  with  an  air  of  irrepressible  virtue. 

"She  don't  want  none  of  your  currant 
wine,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Babcock  fiercely. 
"She's  suffered  enough  by  your  family." 

"  I  guess  you  needn't  be  so  mighty  smart, " 
returned  Mrs.  Maxwell,  jerking  her  arm 
away  from  Flora.  "I  dunno  of  anything 
she's  suffered.  I  should  think  Flora  an' 
me  had  been  the  ones  to  suffer,  an'  now  we 
shan't  never  go  to  law,  nor  make  any  fuss 
about  it.  I  ain't  goin'  to  stay  here  an'  be 
talked  to  so  any  longer  if  I  know,  especially 
by  folks  that  ain't  got  any  business  meddlin' 
with  it,  anyway.  I  suppose  this  is  my 
daughter's  house,  an'  I've  got  a  perfect  right 
in  it,  but  I'm  a-goin'." 

Mrs.  Jane  Maxwell  went  out,  her  ribbons 
and  silken  draperies  fluttering  as  if  her  own 
indignation  were  a  wind,  but  Flora  stayed. 

The  women  led  Jane  Field  into  her  little 
bedroom,  took  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl 
and  dress  as  if  she  were  dead,  and  made  her 


266  JANE    FIELD 

lie  down.  They  bathed  her  head  with  cam 
phor,  they  plied  her  with  soothing  argu 
ments,  but  she  kept  on  her  one  strain.  She 
was  singularly  docile  in  all  but  that.  Mrs. 
Green  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed 
and  prayed.  When  she  said  amen,  Jane 
Field  called  odt  her  confession  as  if  in  the 
ear  of  God.  They  sent  for  the  doctor  and 
he  gave  her  a  soothing  draught,  and  she 
slept.  The  women  watched  with  her,  as 
ever  and  anon  she  stirred  and  murmured 
in  her  sleep,  "I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell." 
And  she  said  it  when  she  first  awoke  in  the 
morning. 

"She's  sayin'  it  now,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Babcock  to  Mrs.  Green,  y'and  I  believe 
she'll  say  it  her  whole  life." 

And  Jane  Field  did.  The  stern  will  of 
the  New  England  woman  had  warped  her 
whole  nature  into  one  groove.  Gradually 
she  seemed  more  like  herself,  and  her  mind 
was  in  other  respects  apparently  clear,  but 
never  did  she  meet  a  stranger  unless  she 
said  for  greeting,  "  I  ain't  Esther  Max 
well." 

And  she  said   it  to  her  own  daughter  on 


JANE    FIELD  267 

her  wedding-day,  when  she  came  in  her 
white  dress  from  the  minister's  with  Francis. 
The  new  joy  in  Lois's  face  affected  her  like 
the  face  of  a  stranger,  and  she  turned  on 
her  and  said,  "  I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell." 


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